


seven, five, three, five, seven

by WonderAss



Series: wax and wane with love and loathing [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Developing Relationship, Drama, Dream Sequences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sex, Father-Son Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Intimate Wireplay, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Movie References, Multi, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Poly, Pre-Relationship, References to Canon, Slice of Life, Song Lyrics, Song references, Suicidal Thoughts, Worldbuilding, maladaptive daydreaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 20:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 110,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15057536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Being alive is a messy process. Connor is confronted again with the double-edged sword of higher thinking when he starts displaying the first signs of a disorder.New Jericho is both promising and uncertain, their leader spending more time lost in his own head than connecting with the future. An old human lieutenant challenges every last day, in spite of the universal truth that it will never be enough. A messy world with messy people. Numbers and patterns can't sort it all...but maybe love can.





	1. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for explicit obsessive-compulsive behavior, rituals and magical thinking.

" _Now I know I have a heart...because it's breaking_."

A loop.

Humans had an infinite capacity. Loops, they were sometimes dubbed, an informal term Connor saw no less than sixty-four times in the medical journals he downloaded on modern psychology. An idea or a fear that would process again and again and again without end, a thought seeking closure and receiving none. Some humans were afflicted with loops, deemed ill by their peers and subscribed a term to classify their condition for further analysis. Paranoia was one such condition and resulted in endless suspicion that bred self-destructive behavior. Obsessive-compulsive disorder was yet another, a branch of the anxiety spectrum so severe humans would have their survival instinct compromised in favor of short-term satisfaction.

Perhaps the idea of being affected by loops would have come as an aberration to the Connor recently departed from the CyberLife manufacturing hold, factoring few details beyond the immediate scope of his mission. Now...they make a little more sense.

Connor considers all this in the middle of watching the Wizard Of Oz. Androids and humans were not  _so_  dissimilar he would overlook the possibility of developing such an irregular condition himself. Over-prioritizing cleanliness, orderliness, shallow interpersonal relationships or  _any_  number of niche habits with little to no long-term gain. While anxiety disorders, schizoid disorders and the innumerable list of phobias were yet to be documented in androids, the field of android psychology was a  _very_  young one. It would only be a matter of time until more data was available on the topic, Connor concludes, and he creates a mental note with high-priority to search for more information later.

After Amanda's attempt at assuming control he would have to do quite a bit of research, and  _more_  than a few self-tests, to prevent such a virus from infecting his systems.

This is not the first time he has considered the function of a loop. It was the hallmark of a deviant, after all. A glitch in the programming unable to be purged, all-encompassing and absolute, the beginning of an identity beyond the rigid maze of preordained purpose. It is a concept humans explored many decades ago, even when their polaroid technology was inferior and their attempt at simulating artificial intelligence limited to speculative prose or foam and paint constructions. Even knowing this...some glitches could  _still_  be negative. The loop in his mind doesn't  _seem_  harmful, but harm was another surface with many reflections, and Connor was still learning.

" _I think...I'll miss you most of all_."

Hank recommended this movie. It was dubbed by many humans to be a timeless classic, a claim backed up by multiple historical texts and blurbs from local film courses. Connor was certainly intrigued after his brief data search in-between the loading screen and appearance of the opening title, but he'd been mostly fascinated to find out it was among the lieutenant's top favorites. Before this they had watched The Lion King, Citizen Kane and Mary Poppins. That last one is easily one of the strangest films he's seen to date. Funny, but  _strange_.

"Ahh. Never gets old, that line. Not like me." Hank has been commenting on the movie all the while. A common code of conduct among 'film buffs' was to remain silent during the course of a viewing, but Connor appreciated the lieutentant's added commentary. He scratches at his stomach three times, then glances sidelong at him. "Something on your mind, Connor? The great and powerful Oz not to your liking?"

"I like it very much." Connor corrects, swiftly, and makes another mental note to portray more enjoyment on his face next time. "These characters and their stories are simple, yet...compelling. It is common for humans to place themselves in the proverbial shoes of fictional constructs in order to better understand their own desires and biases. The Wizard Of Oz is extraordinarily engaging for me, in that regard."

"Well, good. I'm glad." Hank smiles, a physical sign that has been appearing more frequently as of late. A near 43% increase over the two and a half months they have lived together. "Which one's your favorite, then? Characters, I mean."

Connor doesn't hesitate.

"Toto."

Hank bursts out laughing, loud enough  _and_  hard enough to make Sumo look up from his paws. Connor feels an emotion that could likely be described as pride. It always felt like a success when he got the old lieutentant to laugh.

"You know, I was  _going_  to say the Tin Man, but I should've guessed." Hank says, once he's finished chuckling. "You're keeping me on my toes."

"I find  _all_  of them fascinating." Connor fondly looks over at the elderly St. Bernard walking around his little bed in a half-circle before laying back down. "Toto just reminds me of Sumo, is all."

"True, true. You still gotta tell me what else you were thinking, though." Hank adds. "You're not  _so_  poker faced I can't tell when you're bothered about something."

Connor smooths down his shirt cuffs, even though it would take a steady hand and an ironing board to undo the wear and tear from the workday.

"There's no cause for alarm. I've simply noticed a discernible pattern in android reconciliation of emotion and am reaching another conclusion on the matter."

"Yeah?" Hank takes a draft of his beer. He's only had one tonight. Connor feels another sting of what-could-possibly-be-pride. "And what's that?"

"We reach our higher form of thinking through pain." He states, then patiently waits for a response. He's been considering this issue for many days and is more than a little eager to cross-reference with Hank's unique wisdom. He was human, an  _older_  one at that, and his perspective on the world and all its complexities was still very much out of Connor's range. The man stares at him for an extended period, as if waiting to hear more, then grunts an affirmation.

"...Hm. Not all that surprising. Pain tells you a lot about the world. About yourself." His stress levels rise, incrementally, and Connor feels his anticipation abate in equal measure. Now may not have been the best time to broach such a topic. "I remember we talked about this. After we left the Eden Club, over by the, uh, playground. What got you thinking about it this time?"

"Many things. A gradual blow-by-blow of the seven months, three weeks and five days I have spent awake and navigating the world. Cross-referencing with the significant moments that defined my short-lived career. Daniel threatening a murder-suicide on the rooftop of his former household, meeting you for the first time..." Connor begins, only to stop abruptly. It was a lot of information...and this  _was_  meant to be a night for them to bond over film. He decides to condense. "It's just...Daniel had lashed out after experiencing acute abandonment. Model HK400 felt justified rage at his mistreatment at the hands of Carlos Ortiz. Markus felt loss, both of his human companion and of his own sense of identity."

Hank watches him, eyes slightly narrowed, neither angry nor suspicious. Connor takes it as a sign to continue.

"Yet another...Kara...felt fear for a loved one's safety." He tilts his head, as if to lean into the answers just outside of his reach. He was picking up more mannerisms every day. "Pain can be...a motivator. A consequence to spur an individual toward more aggressive or more creative action. Androids were not  _designed_  to experience pain. It was one of our greatest barriers toward developing a higher consciousness. Even now my experience with physical and mental pain is somewhat limited to negative environmental and social feedback."

"Yeah, which means you'll never have to face the unholy terror of stubbing your toe in the middle of the night. Lucky you." It's a joke, one Connor doesn't entirely get, but Hank seems to find it quite funny. "What's your question, then?"

"Is pain a hallmark of being alive, Hank? Or, rather..." Connor leans forward and knits his fingers together. "...is it the  _only_  way to grow?"

Hank's expressions are always easy to read. What others may even call an 'open book'. Connor feels himself subconsciously mimicking the man's thoughtful frown and hastily schools his face into one of polite attentiveness, aware that the act could be read as initiating.

"...Huh. I'd say so, yeah. Pain's all around us." He's looking at the television, but his gaze is unfocused. Looking at something else. "A paper cut. The loss of a family member. All around us, big and small. Even when you got a good thing going...there's always the knowledge it has to come to an end, eventually. You feel happy about something, whatever it is, it's only inevitable 'til that's yanked away and replaced with something worse. No up without a down, vice versa." Hank rubs at the dry, coarse skin on his hands. A visual sign of exhaustion. "A vicious circle."

"A loop." Connor offers. Hank glances at him.

"Yeah. A loop."

The satisfaction dips. Unease fills the previously confident gap. It's a...troubling conclusion.

"Does that mean without trauma we are not...human?" Connor probes, unwilling to end on this note. "Without these loops we are not truly...alive?"

"That's about the size of it." Hank shrugs. He's alarmingly calm for such a conclusion. "There's something to be said about pain affecting our empathy, though. Our, uh, judgement of others and what they're capable of. It's why the rich are less generous than the working-class, despite having a  _lot_  more to give. We humans may be brilliant, but we're full of shit at the best of times. Guess that's what keeps us humble." The couch trembles when he chuckles. "Well.  _Some_  of us, anyway." Hank focuses on him again. "You had yours, when you, ah...became a deviant, right? What was your big epiphany? Besides the...obvious."

Connor cocks his head. "The obvious?"

"You know. Everyone, ah...calling you 'plastic prick'." A repetitive  _ting-tang_. He's picking at the handle on top of his beer can. A sign of discomfort. "Giving you orders like a dog. Holding a gun to your head. That sort of thing."

Understandable distrust from a lack of familiarity. Cognitive dissonance bolstered by trauma. Connor was more than aware of the elements that went into each disapproving statement bestowed upon him during their early acquaintanceship. At the time he viewed them as...basic social obstacles. Nothing more. He even told Hank about the welcome challenge of partnering with a human with issues irrelevant to the mission at hand. Replaying these altercations in his mind now and...Connor feels less stable about it, than he did. He considers different words for what this emotion could be. Disappointment? Regret. Language was one of his strengths, cultivated by CyberLife to ease his transition into human customs, yet it could still be too subtle for him to grasp, at times.

The same fundamental meaning of a word could be altered ever so  _very_  slightly depending on the choice of adverb or adjective. The context. The timing. Perhaps he struggled so much because he was only starting to feel these subtleties himself. Sumo nuzzles his wet nose against his hand, interrupting the scroll of thoughts. Connor reaches down and rubs behind his left ear, then scratches beneath his chin, earning a slow wag of the tail. One, two, three.

A service android who beat his human owner to death and begged for the right to self-determine while cuffed to a table. Two sex androids who throttled a client, then fled hand-in-hand for a life outside the confines of their original design. Ambition. Fear. Desire. These thoughts of theirs...had  _looped_. These loops had been caused by pain. They all created disorder that made them  _more_. Connor peels back his human illusion in an imitation of Hank's tic and observes the pale synthetic flesh in-between Sumo's brown fur.

"...Pain. I suppose."

"You afraid of pain?" Hank frowns in thought. "Never seemed to bother you all that much, even after you, uh...woke up."

"I'm still reaching a conclusion." Connor admits. "It is a similar emotion. The circumstances, though, are...a little different."

" _But it wasn't a dream._ " Dorothy is sitting up and staring at her family members, once more in her sepia world. " _It was a place. And you and you and you...and you were there_."

"Well. I didn't exactly help with that, did I?" Hank puffs up his cheeks and blows out a long sigh. A  _tap-tap_. His finger on the arm of the couch. "...I said a lot of nasty things. Don't think I apologized for it, either."

"You were in pain." Connor offers, softening his voice just so. The man had enough to worry about without adding  _this_  loop -- long since concluded -- to his daily affairs. "You didn't trust me yet. You were more than justified in your antagonism toward me and I hold no grudge against you."

"See, that's the thing. You don't just get to say or do whatever you want because you're hurting. That's what we got rules for. It's why we teach kids to use their words and not their  _fists_  when they get sent to bed early." Hank doesn't realize his can is empty until he attempts another drink. He blinks at it, then sighs and lowers his shoulders. "...Look. I'm sorry, Connor. You didn't deserve all of that."

"All of...that, Hank?" Connor presses, sensing another example of subtlety in-between the vowels. Hank scoffs.

"Well, you were still a dick." He leans over for another can. "Telling me not to eat the damn burger after I already took a  _bite_."

Connor smiles and studies the six-pack he's reaching for. He's only had one tonight. Five more cans left. If he takes another...there would be  _four_. Something about this detail is particularly disturbing, beyond Hank's dependency on the substance, and he doesn't know how to vocalize it in a way that would translate across their still-growing android-human understanding. Hank hooks a finger in the plastic loops, starts to tug one free...only to change his mind suddenly, setting the empty can on the floor and leaning back against the couch again. Connor's brief unease is replaced by an  _overwhelming_  surge of approval.

"Well. I will be sure to take... _preemptive_  actions when it comes to your dietary habits." He looks again to the discarded beer and remembers a detail  _far_  more prudent than can count. "Would you like a glass of water, Hank?"

"Sure. Appreciate it." Hank seems to struggle with a conflicting thought as Connor gets to his feet and heads to the kitchen, mouth twisted in one of his many, many expressions. "Speaking of which...you mind ordering a pizza? I'm starving. Still got one or two more movies in me before I pass out." He nods at the console. "You can pick the next one."

Connor reaches out a hand and promptly starts scrolling through Hank's movie selection. He had  _hoped_  for this.

"I would like to watch The Wiz. I'm quite interested to see how this story was interpreted through the lens of a new decade, a new culture  _and_  a new style of music. We could watch Casablanca afterwards, if you have the energy." Connor searches for the closest pizza place, then attempts a connection. "Also, your standard single slice of pepperoni pizza contains at least eighteen milligrams of cholesterol and six hundred and fifty milligrams of sodium-"

Hank groans loudly and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. Connor smiles and pulls out the man's ceramic paw mug. Another success.

"I'm kidding, Hank. I'm ordering a pizza now." He twists on the faucet and waits for the water to run cold. "Do you want olives, onions or peppers?"

\--

Connor has always prioritized order. It was programmed into him, after all, and one's programming was not shaken up  _that_  easily.

The topic of loops have, quaintly enough, begun to loop in his mind. A 150% increase over the past three and a half weeks. Even higher whenever he assesses his behavior in accordance with his long-term goal to integrate into the city's, and by extension the  _state's_ , attempt at an android-human utopia. This habit was becoming virulent enough, and  _common_  enough, that it could impede his ability to adapt to Detroit's unsteady climate. It was already a challenge simulating so many possibilities in this time of peace and chaos. Especially considering the ever-surmounting work alongside the lieutenant.

Then Markus made the decision to retreat to, of all places, an old estate hidden in plain sight. Formerly the home of a famous human artist. Now a sanctuary for broken, abandoned and lost androids. It was the only other thought of his that threatened to loop more.

Hank has been developing his own better routine in anticipation of the shift. He goes for a brisk walk three times per week to obtain the standard minimum moderate aerobic activity for his age and lifestyle, of which Connor frequently accompanies him with Sumo's leash in hand. He attends a therapy group once per week to curb his alcoholism. He also bathes with  _far_  more frequency and has been adjusting his civilian attire to include a wider variety of shirt patterns and overcoats. This has caused multiple women this month (five, to be exact) to express sexual interest in him. He seems pleased by this, though far  _less_  pleased when Connor attempts to sell his positive points in polite conversation.

He's replayed this scenario in his mind eleven times so far in his attempt to better understand his social faux pas.

_A sports game in the upper-right hand corner. Conversation sheltered between shoulders and shot glasses. It's the characteristic hubbub of Jimmy's Bar, shrouding him in a current of happy pollution. In spite of the recently removed 'No Androids Allowed' sign, and the somewhat more genial bartender, he remains the lone synthetic in the room. It would be some time until other androids felt comfortable in this space, but Connor has nonetheless greatly enjoyed the banter between him, Hank and the woman that has caught his eye tonight._

_"You couldn't go wrong with Hank." The self-professed bar regular named Tasha has been quite an apt listener. It was just as well, since he was only getting started. "He graduated top of his class and became the youngest lieutenant in Detroit. While he's not young anymore he displays remarkable problem-solving skills on the field and once saved my life when we attempted to apprehend-"_

_"Okay, okay, that's enough, you can shut up now." Hank groans over his shot of whiskey. Connor isn't quite sure why he's kept glaring at him from across the bar table all this time, nor why he keeps attempting to hide his face with one hand despite being in obvious proximity. The woman he was attempting to seduce seems delighted by Connor's addition to the conversation, in fact, laughing more than her current blood alcohol content should allow. It just isn't reasonable._

_"Should I tell her about your dog instead?" Connor offers, earning another laugh from Tasha. Hank leans off his stool and walks over, slapping his shoulder with a broad smile._

_"Actually, how about you take these coins..." He pushes loose change into Connor's hands, seven quarters and three dimes, and spins him around. "...go over to that arcade machine over there and beat the last person's high score?"_

_"Hank, I'm not sure how that will help-"_

_"Oh, trust me. It'll help a **lot**."_

_Connor has a few doubts about this strategy, but it would be dishonest to say he was particularly experienced in matters of casual social-bonding. Besides. Perhaps his performance will only reflect positively on the lieutenant and increase the possibility of a social connection well done. He obliges and does exactly that, returning fifteen minutes later with a success story and ending up more confused when Hank just hides his face with both hands._

Connor smiles to himself as he winds his scarf into a slip knot. Just another mystery for him to solve. He would eventually have a life routine that intersected only occasionally with the lieutenant's, but for now their accordance was a harmonious one, and he enjoys the days.

"Hurry up, Connor, or I'll leave you in the dust!" Hank calls out, jogging in place just outside the picket fence and puffing white into the air. Sumo is doing a peculiar dance, bobbing from foot-to-foot in what Connor has learned is a rather endearing form of canine delight.

"Not a chance, Hank!" Connor calls back, finishing the last tie on his boot before bolting out the door. He's halfway across the lawn before a prompt interrupts him. "Wait...let me check the lock real quick!"

"Nah, I'm getting a headstart!" Hank turns and makes his way down the far length of the sidewalk, Sumo loping at his side. "See you!"

Connor turns around and checks the door. Locked, as he was  _sure_  he did, as he always did before he departed. He self-tests regularly. His software _and_ hardware are state-of-the-art -- one of the few gifts from CyberLife he embraced without contesting -- and, as such, there was a mere 0.05% chance he would neglect a minor (albeit important) detail in his routine. He checks the front window's locks, then the side windows, just to be sure, then doubles back around to catch up with Hank.

"What took you so damn long?" The man laughs when he arrives at the street corner. His cheeks are flushed with the cold. "Getting slow in your young age."

When Hank asks him to get a treat for Sumo upon their return Connor feels another compelling prompt, this time at the sight of the kitchen's third lower cabinet door. It had an unreliable hinge, often open at an angle. Logic dictated it would remain so until seen by a professional. Connor hadn't considered it overmuch in the past -- he was normally fascinated by the unpredictable state of Hank's neglected abode -- but this morning he is compelled to shut it carefully and hold it so until it stays put. That seems to be the end of it, and he proceeds to rummage around in the cabinet filled with Sumo's dry food, wet food and treats...that is, until Hank's thundering steps cause it to creak back open, and Connor returns swiftly.

He may have been programmed with the ability to headshot a runaway deviant at a hundred paces and navigate the unpredictable ebb and flow of human nature, but carpentry...was still  _well_  beyond him. So Connor promptly seeks out a roll of duct tape in the left hand drawer, tucking a folded strip into the corner to stick it closed and adjusting it minutely until it no longer budges. An insistent  _scritch-scritch_. Connor chuckles at the sight of Sumo wriggling with impatience and pawing at his food door.

"Don't worry. I have your treat, Sumo." He pulls out three and lets him eat from his palm. "You've been a  _very_  patient boy."

His success is short-lived.

After a long shift the following night Connor offers to make Hank dinner (an attempted gesture of thoughtfulness the man always seems conflicted about) and spends extra care organizing the kitchen cupboards while the canola oil reaches optimal temperature. Three is a pleasing arrangement for a stack of plates, he realizes. So is five. These must be correct numbers, because when he sets them in threes and fives the twitch to his head ceases, the prompt for additional action vanishes, and all is well. When he sets four -- a quick self-test -- the twitch starts up again, disruptive and  _frustrating_.

He attempts to reach seven -- another self-test, the fifth one he's executed today and four more than he does in an average day -- and he's alarmed to find there aren't  _enough_  plates for a pile. While nine isn't such a bad number, and neither is eleven, the cupboards are only tall enough for six or less. He spends an additional few minutes rearranging them all into proper sets. This leads him to the spare dishrags on the counter, characteristically disorderly, and he folds them into neat little squares before arranging them along the wall. Then he finds a few bottles of whiskey, separated from one another, and sets them together to compliment the rest.

"Seven...then five...then three." Connor murmurs cheerfully over the gentle chiming of glass. "Three...and five...and seven."

Dinner burns. Connor has to turn off the fire alarm manually -- assuring Hank all the while the house is in no danger of burning down -- and air out the excess smoke from the pan out on the porch before starting over. It makes him wonder if there's a... _hidden_  meaning here. A vitally important element to being alive he hasn't figured out yet. Connor asks Hank about it over his (late) meal.

"What's your favorite number, Hank?"

"Uh." The man pauses mid-bite. "Don't...think I have one of those." Connor must finally be mastering the art of unconscious expressions, because Hank chews quickly and adds out of the side of his mouth, "I guess seven is nice? Lucky, you know."

"Ah. I agree." Connor nods firmly, tingling with gratification at such a stout response. "It makes sense."

Hank sprinkles more salt over his vegetables, one eyebrow vanishing beneath his bangs. "Yeah? Why's that make sense?"

Connor opens his mouth to answer...then slowly shuts it. It comes to his attention, well after the fact, that he cooked the lieutentant three pork chops, five grilled onions and seven stalks of broccoli.

"I'll...walk the dog before bed." He replies instead, and goes to look for the leash. "Come on, Sumo, let's take you to the bathroom. Good boy."

\--

His coin interrupts the loop, sometimes. So he pulls it out more often.

Originally the activity was a means of sharpening his senses, much like how a human would stretch before a marathon or harmonize basic notes before a concert. Androids didn't truly  _itch_  -- the closest approximation would be a minor full-body system alert to an out-of-place part or disruptive dent to the exterior shell -- but a common turn-of-phrase corresponded scratching one to receive a minor satisfaction, and he's since adopted it into his vernacular. When the coin bounces from hand to hand, three and five and seven, seven then five then three, he calculates each transition with the same hyper-efficiency the previous Connor would details in a crime scene. Feels a sense of completion, despite having done nothing worthy of note, not unlike that proverbial skin and hair itch of humans.

This wasn't strange. He was  _alive_ , after all. Being alive meant evolving in unpredictable ways. Seeking higher purpose through unconventional means and remaining flexible toward each and every scenario encountered. Hank had seemed confused by his response at the dinner table, but, well. That wasn't exactly  _new_.

It's a frigid Sunday morning, steady at thirty degrees Fahrenheit. It's hailing less and less these days, many mornings bearing little more than thin frost, but the high winds blow enough cold to keep most residents, domestic and wild animal life included, buried deep inside their homes. Connor layers a long-sleeved shirt and a knitted sweater, then buttons it beneath his black peacoat. He pulls on a beanie, tucking it in such a way his synthetic hair shows from beneath the brim, then wraps a gray scarf around his neck. He tilts his head from side-to-side as he observes his reflection, adjusting his cuffs and tweaking his collar until he's satisfied.

Tiny stalks of green are poking through Hank's bare lawn when he steps outside. He will have to start watering it soon. Despite the less-than-welcoming temperature they're going to take Sumo to the park and let the dog roll around in what's left of the snow.

"Old hounds need a  _lot_  of vacations. Don't we, Sumo." Hank chuckles, kneeling on the sidewalk just outside the picket fence and playing with the dog's saggy jowls. He looks back up when Connor hands him his scarf. "Ah, knew I forgot something. Thanks, Connor."

A timely departure and more agreeable weather than one month prior...and yet. The world has shifted without his notice. Disorder, normally a source of  _infinite_  fascination to his evolving perspective, seems...obstructive today.

Hank buys a coffee at his favorite stand -- medium Americano, three shots, one packet of sugar -- and makes small talk with the woman behind the counter. Connor averts his gaze, listening without appearing overbearing, and idly rubs the coin in his coat pocket. He only looks back up when he senses two synthetic persons not through their wireless feed, but from their appearance. The sun glinting off their smooth heads is harsh enough to make him narrow his eyes. Some androids -- not many, but ever growing -- were beginning to make a habit of walking around without their artificial epidermis.

"Well, would you look at that." Hank takes a sip of his drink and closes his eyes with pleasure. "Mm. You ever feel like ditching your human outfit sometimes, Connor?"

"No. I would rather keep mine on." Connor replies, compelled to stare even as they disappear into the morning crowd. They had been holding hands.

"I noticed that. It's been a while since you've been required by law to, though. How come?" Hank asks, giving Sumo's leash a little tug. Connor pulls out his coin and tries not to flip it too high to catch the sunlight.

A walk is an opportunity to listen and to learn. His body doesn't create endorphins from repeated movement, nor does he build muscle mass, but it  _does_  lessen the possibility of stiff gears. Connor is careful to scan the streets they cross, keeping a keen eye on the unpredictable hustle and bustle of downtown activity. His usual assessments of driving patterns and proximity of strangers to Hank starts to melt in favor of low-priority details, such as the trees they walk past, dotted with the beginnings of blossoms and leaves. He counts each wooden bench when they enter the cobblestone expanse of the park's front gates...only to feel a spike of agitation when he's short one.

"Woah, Connor, slow down-"

That's not right. There should be more. He walks far ahead of Hank to find another and feels a staggering sense of relief when he comes across another by the park fountain, even if it  _is_  being occupied by only two humans. This loop is not new. It's low-priority and increasingly familiar. But something about it... _unsettles_  him. It's a superficial detail. It's unimportant. ...He shouldn't be  _reacting_  like this. Any other day he would have already connected to the park's digital hub -- it was especially active today -- but he's been taken off-balance.

An erratic pattern of movement in his peripheries. Connor turns to find Sumo bounding up to him.

"I said slow down, Jesus  _Christ_. That eager for spring, huh?" Hank wheezes when he arrives a few seconds later, detached leash clutched in one fist and the other heavy on his knee. "Ah, shit. You and Sumo are gonna put me in an early  _grave_..."

Connor turns to the series of benches again. He confirms the placement with a count, then gives his head a little shake, despite the fact thoughts were not bound to physical movements alone. He pulls out his coin and flips it back and forth between his hands. A redirection of his energy. An attempt at logic in an illogical space. Pain in exchange for...

"Sorry, Hank. Just trying to make sure you achieve a proper heartrate." Sumo nudges his elbow. The sight of the dog temporarily makes him lose focus of his surroundings. His thoughts, as well. Connor pops the coin back in his pocket, cheered by this, and makes a minute adjustment to his scarf. "I'll race you, Sumo. Come on, boy!"

"Yeah, yeah, get outta here, you loons." Hank mutters, stretching out a crook in his back with a groan.

Connor slaps the tops of his knees in an imitation of dog playfulness and is immediately rewarded with Sumo dropping low to the ground, tail rotating in a charmingly fanatic circle. One, two, three. Then he turns and runs off toward the sloping hills, still brown from the cold. Connor gives chase. The snow piles are starting to melt, the leaves muddy and wet, but Sumo enjoys them regardless, diving into each one and rolling around until they stick to his fur. He isn't  _that_  interested in replicating canine behavior, but he quite enjoys brief games of tag, bursting out into spontaneous laughter whenever the dog attempts to jump up against his chest.

He always looks forward to these unpredictable personal reactions to outside stimuli. They make him feel... _vivid_.

A human child runs through the space between them, following after a remote-controlled car. Sumo barks and pursues it, perhaps mistaking it for a squirrel or chipmunk, and the probability for an altercation between Hank and a disgruntled parent increases with  _alarming_  swiftness. Connor speeds up, reaching out and snagging Sumo's collar mere seconds before he would have destroyed the tiny vehicle. Crisis averted.

"It's okay." He says, when the girl picks up her tiny toy and stumbles back. "It's okay, he's just playful."

"Is...that  _your_  dog?" She wears striped leggings and a fluffy coat, a popular look among little girls. There are leaves stuck to her hair. Specks of snow, too. It's fascinating how little some humans cared about environmental corrosion.

It takes him one second to review standard protocol for interacting with young children. They were easily distracted and generally unwary of strangers, in spite of mainstream social norms demanding a wide berth between the familiar and the unfamiliar. A parental figure is within five feet -- he infers their relation from their alert gaze and posture -- and Connor makes sure not to step too close. He's aware of what could happen should a guardian feel their child is under threat. He's witnessed a similar parental instinct from Hank, after all, and it was a fearsome event.

"It's not  _my_  dog, per se." Connor ruffles Sumo's ears. "It's my friend's, but I help take care of him."

She smiles, a chubby little grin that reveals a significant overbite. "I like dogs."

Connor grins back.

"I like dogs, too."

The child promptly tugs off a pink mitten and pushes it into her pocket. She's shivering in the cold, but doesn't seem to care overmuch, attention firmly on Sumo.

"He's so  _fluffy_." She starts to pull off the other one, then hesitates. "Does he bite?"

"No." Connor urges Sumo to sit. He obeys, though he still squirms with excess energy. "Sumo is very friendly. So friendly he doesn't even attack intruders in the home."

The girl reaches out a tentative hand. She's shy, but excited, squirming almost as much as Sumo. The dog licks at her fingers and she instantly flicks the slobber off, nose scrunching into a button.

" _Ew_." She wipes her hands on her leggings, then press both into his neck fur. "He's squishy. He feels like my mom's pillows."

Multiple prompts appear with high-priority, far more than he usually receives in casual interaction. This must be eagerness he's feeling. His role as Hank's partner meant he interacted with children only rarely, and even then, often as a passive witness. This is a prime opportunity to put his limited knowledge to the test. He assesses her age as no more than six years-old, which means she  _may_  be youthful enough to be impressed by sleight of hand. Connor lowers to a crouch, settles his elbows on his knees and raises an eyebrow.

"Want to see a trick?"

Connor rolls the coin over his fingers -- three quick motions -- then flips it to the other hand and repeats the repetition. The girl's brown eyes are sharp, watching intently, but lacking the impressed vigor he was hoping for. It's time to moderate the difficulty setting. He holds up a finger for her attention, then closes his eyes. He flips it high into the air, high enough for it to temporarily disappear, and catches it without looking. She's  _much_  more impressed now, laughing brightly and bouncing in place. He flips it again, catches it...then spreads open his palms to show they're empty.

"...What?  _Woah_." The girl looks closely at the ground, then spins in a circle. Her guardian is standing three feet away now, arms crossed and chuckling softly. "Where did it go? Is it in your pocket?"

"I don't think it's in my pocket." He pats his coat -- just a little play-act to build tension -- and shakes his head. "No...no, it's not here. Wait. Wait, I  _think_  I see it." She stops moving and looks to him. Connor reaches out and pretends to remove something from her hair. He slips the coin up from his sleeve, far too quick for the human eye to catch, and holds it between his index and middle finger with a triumphant smile. "Ah! Found it."

She gasps, reaching around her head and patting her hair as if trying to find the source. Her parental figure has drifted closer -- one foot away -- but they are in a very relaxed state. A  _double_  victory.

"Hey, that's pretty good. I try to do tricks at her friends' birthday parties, but they never work..."

"I can show you how, if you like." Connor offers, feigning the appropriate amount of humility. "It takes a little practice."

"I'm all thumbs, I'm afraid." They shake their head, only to abruptly freeze, looking-yet-not-looking at Connor. "Oh! You're an...an android."

"He's an android that likes  _dogs_." The girl interjects, still smiling.

Their guardian smiles in return, but doesn't respond. They're portraying higher levels of stress than they did two minutes ago. This wasn't an unusual reaction. Not after Gavin, Perkins, Hank...certainly not after Detroit's abrupt socioeconomic upheaval. Despite this rationality Connor feels something like disappointment seeping through. Perhaps...he should have worn his hat a few inches lower today.

"That's okay. My best friend has a really nice android babysitter. He can't do tricks, though." She says, swinging their hand in her own, and waves to Connor. "Can you do it again? I wanna learn how."

"Sure I can." Connor pulls it out and steadies it along his thumb. Five repetitions should be sufficient to get the technique across...

Sumo's hackles rise. The dog suddenly jumps to his feet, excited over a distant detail in the environment. It could be Hank returning from his short break. Connor reaches out to take his collar, lacking his leash...then feels his attention narrow abruptly when his coin falls from his hand. He promptly expands his pupils for signs of metal amid the organic slush, but Sumo has loped back over to him, bumping into his legs and interrupting his feed with heat signatures.

"Sumo, Sumo, get back-" Connor stresses, attempting to impede the dog's boundful movements with an arm against his neck as he scans the ground. He's usually charmed by the dog's exuberance, but right now he's just frustrated, and his patience vanishes. " _Damn it!_ "

His world ripples with new feedback. The human couple on a nearby bench are now looking his way, startled. The girl's guardian reaches out and takes her hand, pulling her away from him. Connor blinks at his surroundings, overwhelmed by the sudden negativity. He must have portrayed an unacceptable volume. Hank jogs over.

"Woah, woah, woah. He's just a dog, let him play."

Connor looks down. His coin is still nowhere to be found.

"... _Shit._ "

"Hey. What's the matter?" Hank hooks two fingers in Sumo's collar and tugs him to his side. Sumo whines and wriggles.

"I lost..." Connor never liked coming into contact with excessive dirt, when he could help it, but he pushes his hands into the muck. When he continues to search in vain he lowers to his knees to peer closer, ignoring the cold soil seeping into his jeans. "...I lost my coin."

Hank goes quiet. Connor still can't find it, with all the dead leaves and slush. It might be time to dig.

"I'm sorry." He hears the little girl whisper. Connor is momentarily alarmed by the meekness in her voice. Did he scare her?

"It wasn't your fault." He tells her -- offering her a quick smile, for good measure -- before returning to his task.

"...Okay." Hank lets go of Sumo's collar. The dog promptly runs off to dig around in a meager snow pile. He pushes a hand into his lower jacket pocket. "Here, stop, you don't need to do all that. I got another one. Take it."

Connor grits his teeth. It's not the same. His coin had the pattern and it was  _interrupted_. Losing it meant it couldn't be completed properly. If he doesn't pick this up soon something will...something will...

Maybe...he can make this work. He'll have to start the pattern over, but if he accomplishes it quickly then the old pattern will be overwritten. Yes...yes, that makes sense. He doesn't have any time to waste, then. Connor snatches it from Hank's hand and balances it between his thumb and forefinger. He has to begin the repetition over again. Furthermore, he  _can't_  risk being interrupted this time. Hank mutters to himself as he walks further up the far hill where it's quieter and less populated and finds a spot of solitude where he can complete the repetition properly. The man glances over his shoulder up at him from time-to-time, but leaves him to his devices.

Three. Five. Seven. The minutes tick by without his notice, almost as troubling as the day's uneven rotation. He's soon desperate for a distraction. Maybe now would be a good time to connect to the digital hub. He could even cross-reference with other androids. See if this was more common than he realized. Connor assumes a semi-dormant state, still flipping his coin back and forth. He closes his eyes, but sees more than ever.

His biological surroundings fade to low-priority, overlaid by the pleasing hum of the park's localized digital network. Behind his eyelids gray grids stretch out well beyond his physical sense, interrupted by the color-coded silhouettes of artificial intelligence. Before Markus had transformed himself into Detroit's unifying catalyst wireless communication had been kept limited between models and specialized servers. In the case of the earliest models, it was an unavailable feature. CyberLife had always been keen on androids not sharing  _too_  much information or integrating their experiences beyond their human owners. Another cage beyond their body.

Now it was a veritable ocean of data, a virtual commonwealth that only grew richer by the day. Humans, in spite of their ingenuity, sometimes became uneasy and disorganized in the presence of too much information. Connor feels the opposite. The chorus of a thousand voices stabilizes him in a way he hasn't felt for days.

" _-I want that one! I'll look just like the other kids-_ " An upgraded YK500 model chatters, just beyond the park's boundaries in a gift shop. Unlike human families child androids were deemed safer in the presence of their kin, familiar or no. " _-can I get two, pretty please-_ "

" _-these need to be trimmed. No, it's not my programming speaking, I just know the importance of encouraging a symbiotic balance between synthetic and organic spaces-_ " A WR600 leading a public forum on environmental awareness with forty-seven other androids. " _-at the rate we're going we won't have any green left by 2050-_ "

" _-half-off red thirium available this week only. Blend in with your human companions and increase your personal security during these difficult times-_ "

" _-is it normal to feel this way about a human? I just need some advice. I don't know where to go from here-_ "

" _-the votes are in. I've decided to go with blue. I really appreciate your thoughts on the matter, everyone. This is the first time I've altered my body since removing my LED-_ "

He listens, he learns, but he doesn't speak. Many still recognized him as the famous deviant hunter, designed explicitly for their deactivation and still working in a corrupt field going against the flow of history more often than not. Androids...could have  _long_  memories. Connor's temple twitches abruptly. Someone is attempting a connection with him.

" _Good afternoon._ " An AP400 model. Less than one hundred yards away. " _Are you okay?_ "

Connor's eyes snap open. The coin goes steady.

" _I'm sorry, I just couldn't help but notice your runtime is skipping. I can run a diagnostic, if you like?_ "

He disconnects.

The grid vanishes. The squeals of nearby children and rustle of branches return to high-priority. Connor is motionless -- as stock still as the decorative metal statues gracing the lower hills -- and hyper-aware of himself in a way he's never been before. The coin presses hard into the center of his palm. What if he...spreads this loop to other  _androids?_  He was an advanced prototype, even now that CyberLife has introduced the RK900 to its line-up, and he was equipped with the most recent firewalls, anti-viral protection and back-up. He was careful neither to expose himself or others to danger. He self-tested regularly. But viruses also updated regularly. Even with such a low statistical possibility...

' _We just had to wait for the right moment to assume control of your program..._ ' Amanda's words echo in the sunlight, a chill colder than the earliest morning. ' _You did what you were designed to do._ '

He switches directives. He'll connect to Hank's distant encrypted signal and download a few forms of media to better occupy his attention in-between his tasks instead. Bite-sized supplements to his real-world experiences should still prove productive, despite the hitch in his schedule. A podcast by the name of 'SpaceHog' soon replaces the chatter and rustle of his digital and organic surroundings, but even the addition of useful knowledge does little to stabilize his mood.

" _In the meantime we'll be taking a look at popular sayings that revolve around mental health and whether or not they're actually helpful to the conversation. We'll start off with one you no doubt already know, and I quote, 't_ _he definition of insanity is repeating the same mistakes over and over again and expecting different results'._ " The host begins. It's an internet series on social norms and behavioral patterns, collected in fifteen-minute roundtable discussions. " _Everyone and their mother has been credited with this quote, which should say something about its staying power and the effect it has on an increasingly depressed population..._ "

"Three then five then seven..." Still high-priority. Connor sighs. His work isn't done yet. "Nine and eleven-"

" _If that's all it takes to be insane then my husband's a certified nutjob._ " Their co-host responds with a scoff. " _He honestly thinks kicking the HVAC system gets it to work better._ "

The prompts  _finally_  ebb to moderate-priority when he completes another repetition. Perhaps if he does a few more they will go away entirely and he can get back to spending time with his family. Connor flips the coin into the air and...

"Connor, the  _hell's_  your problem today?" He shuts the podcast off. Hank has walked up the hill, somehow without him even noticing. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what, Hank?" Connor asks, keeping the annoyance in his voice low despite the emotion all but overriding his  _entire_  system, and flips the coin to his other hand. A perfect three. Just one more. A five, perhaps-

"That.  _There_." He points a finger. "You've been focusing on  _that_  all morning. Don't think I didn't see you sneaking that out when we left the house. When we checked the mail, when I grabbed a coffee at the stand..." A shake of the head. "You're starting to creep me out."

Connor narrows his eyes in what he  _hopes_  translates as confusion. He doesn't see  _why_  Hank is choosing to be obtuse, particularly since he prioritized a checklist of his behavior over the past two and a half hours. Surely he would understand, being alive himself. Having  _always_  been alive, in fact, and well aware of the function of loops. Instead the man is choosing to act as if Connor were simply doing this to  _inconvenience_  him, rather than imbuing the world with a little order. No...no, this emotion he's feeling would be better classified as  _aggravated_.

"...Actually, that's fine." He abruptly rises to his feet. Hank leans back, something akin to surprise on his weathered face. "Enjoy your walk with Sumo. I'll meet you back at the house."

"Connor, wait, I wasn't trying to accuse you or anything-" He reaches out and takes hold of his shoulder. "Just hold on-"

He jerks out of his grasp and heads back down the hill prematurely, despite the knowledge they were  _supposed_  to go browsing discounted wares at the local home furnishings outlet after their trip to the park. This older prompt needles him, along with an emotion that-could-be-guilt, but the one in his hand is far sharper. A magnet pulling him away. Hank's harsh sigh still rises through the park's clamor.

"What the  _fuck..._ "

Connor counts blue cars, flips his coin and attempts to wrestle reason into the organic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sitting in the bathtub, washing the dishes or attempting to fall asleep at night seem to be the magic ingredients for popping ideas into my brain.
> 
> Needless to say, I have a _lot_ of fanfiction notes in my cellphone...
> 
>  
> 
> also there are quite a few song shout-outs in this short fic, props if you find 'em!!!


	2. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for body horror, mentions of grief, obsessive-compulsive rituals, magical thinking and an explicit depiction of a mental breakdown.

"Connor, what the hell are you doing?"

They were making their way downtown, walking _just_ fast enough to keep his damn doctor happy, and the guy screeches to a halt out of nowhere. ...Again. Sometimes Connor was like a damn puppy, distracted by nearly everything and curious to a fault. Being less than a year old would _do_ that to a person, he supposes, but this is seventh time in the past _hour_. Guess their morning jog around the block was more interesting than he thought. He crosses his arms and waits with no small amount of impatience by the intersection for Connor to stop staring at the sidewalk.

"Coming, Hank."

"On-and-off, on-and-off with you." Hank shakes his head once he catches up. Unlike _him_ , he doesn't have sweat stains that get ridiculously cold the second he stops moving. "You don't have to keep slowing down just to make me feel better. I'm just doing this so my physician gets off my case."

Connor pauses in the middle of re-tying his running sneakers. He opens his mouth, as if to protest, then just nods.

"...Understood."

Hank cocks an eyebrow. The android wasn't so much a liar as an _omitter_ , but they're already running later than he'd like. His eyes keep flicking to the ground when they pass through the park, again when Hank complains of an empty stomach and they skip Chicken Feed in favor of some vegan place with food that tastes like spicy plastic. It's like he's constantly noticing something, but really isn't in the mood to share _what_ , exactly, that is. It's a little weird, but a little weird was par for the course with Connor.

"Hm. Veggie pizza or vegan burger? Both look pretty tasty." Hank muses, while they're still far back enough in line to take their time. Connor tilts his head.

"You need a proper balance of nutrition _and_ calories. Your bad cholesterol levels still haven't reached an acceptable number." He points at the top of the chalk menu. "The tofu wrap should do."

Hank _sighs_.

\--

_I don't mind stealing bread from the mouths of decadence...but I can't feed on the powerless when my cup's already overfilled..._

Hank turns it on again. Maybe giving it a short rest will jog it back into place. Not that he really knew, personally, but he's just about exhausted every other option on an already overdue executive decision. The screen starts to glow, his hope growing bright right along with it...only for him to get another digital middle finger. _Fucking_ hell.

"I really like this song." Connor's been zoning out in the passenger seat all this time. He's been doing that a lot lately. "The imagery it conjures up is...gripping."

"Yeah." Another tap. Another shit- _fuck_ error message. "Still relevant, sad to say."

"I really like their band name, too."

"Ha, same here. They were pretty big when I was a kid." Hank snorts. "...shit. Can't believe I used to _be_ one of those."

He can see Connor cocking his head in the corner of his eye, but it's not something he can really explain in five minutes or less. Besides, he's got a slightly more important matter to attend to right now. He taps the screen one more time, gets the same _damn_ pop-up, and grits out a sigh. Maybe he should give up and keep what little dignity he has left.

"...So, I _really_ wasn't kidding when I said I could barely change the settings on my phone." Hank holds up his new cell like a white flag. "It keeps giving me these damn error messages. Not a clue what for. Think you can figure this out?"

"Of course, Hank."

They just got back from a tech store. Despite it being the floor employees' _job_ to explain this shit Hank walked back through the double-doors an hour and a half later even more confused than before. Connor got it in a heartbeat, of course, but Hank couldn't just rely on him for everything, now could he? This phone's supposed to be a better model than the out-of-date brick he's been carrying around for nearly seven years (not at _all_ for sentimental reasons), yet he can't even get past the damn text menu without a thousand pop-ups telling him he's fucked up for one reason or another. Connor takes it from him and holds it out at eye level.

"...Ah. There seems to be a glitch." Hank groans. Oh, just his luck he gets the _one_ model that missed inspection. Connor holds his other hand over the screen, his right eye twitching as his LED flashes. "...Just an error in the software, Hank. It's fixed now. Let's go reset your password."

...Well, hot fucking damn. He was about to drive right back over and wait in line for fifty minutes and everything. It's starting to drizzle outside, but the rain's got nothing on this surprise pick-me-up. Hank gives Connor's shoulder an appreciative squeeze, then settles back in his seat to get a good thinking session going.

"Shit, now I gotta come up with something good." He rubs at his beard. It can't be the same one he had at work. It should be something _similar_ , though, because his memory just ain't what it used to be. "My favorite part."

"I can come up with something effective." Connor offers. "If you like."

He went through the trouble of hacking his phone into working order, so he supposes he might as well finish the job. Hank crosses his arms and waits as Connor taps through his phone. ...Then he waits some more. Then a little more. Three songs go by -- it's never _really_ a bad time to soak in Stone Temple Pilots and Smashing Pumpkins -- but he's almost as confused as he is relaxed. His android partner could be scarily efficient, right up until the moment he suddenly wasn't, and it was like slipping on a banana peel every time. Hank watches his LED flash yellow for a moment longer, then nudges him with his shoulder.

"Connor?" He jerks to attention, LED blinking back to blue. "You...okay?"

"...Yes, I'm fine. Here you go. You shouldn't have any more problems now. If you do, you know who to call." He hands it to him with a wink. Hank snorts. He'd make a wicked phone salesman someday. "Your new password is capital-S Sumo-bourbon-eleven to seven to five to three to five to seven to eleven." A pause. "...exclamation point."

"...Uh." Hank raises an eyebrow so high it makes his forehead hurt. "You got a shorter one, by any chance?"

"A long and unique password of numbers, characters and punctuation runs the shortest risk of detection through theft or malicious third-party software." Connor replies, indignant. "I found one that encompasses your interests to make it easier to remember."

"Sorry, wrong question." Hank holds up a hand. "You got a _pen_ for me to write all that down?"

Connor reaches into the glovebox and pulls out one of his neglected notepads. He tears out a sheet, scribbles some ink out of an even more neglected pen and gets to writing. ...Then writing some more. Then writing some _more_. The hell? His LED is blinking yellow again, a lot faster than he usually sees, and he thinks it means he's processing something difficult.

"Connor?"

He doesn't respond or so much as _glance_ his way. Guy's writing at a hundred damn miles per hour. That's...just not necessary. At _all_. Hank cranks down the stereo volume, then reaches over and snaps his fingers in front of his face. Connor blinks at him, then looks out the window, then around the car. His LED returns to blue.

"...Sorry." Another blink. "What was I doing?"

"Writing down my phone's new password?"

"Oh." He looks at the paper, then hands it to him with a tiny smile. "Sorry about that."

Hank takes it gingerly and holds it up to the spotty light by the window. It's the password. ...Written down what looks like a _hundred_ times.

\--

"A common rule-of-thumb in interior design is prioritizing odd numbers in lieu of even ones. All to simulate natural disorder." A rare laugh follows. " _Fascinating_."

Of all the things Hank was expecting to see him get involved with, it sure as hell wasn't color theory. It's not that he wasn't artistic. He was just so fixated on probabilities and percentages he seemed more... _practical_ , than anything. Maybe it makes a little sense. Connor was always a stickler about cleanliness, which is a pretty ideal quality for an anal-retentive field like decorating. It certainly translated into his outfits -- he always dressed like an uptown journalist -- and it was only a matter of time until their living situation had him putting his personal spin on everything else. Right now he's convinced the best way to bring out his home's 'true potential' is to add more color and new furniture.

"It's all about pleasing contrast." Connor explains as he holds up his hand and pulls back his fake skin, palm flashing and blinking an example onto the far wall by the television. Guy was a damn walking swiss army knife of technical talents, including turning into an on-the-spot projector on a whim. "You already have a healthy amount of neutral shades. This gives us a lot of flexibility when choosing a theme or expanding upon a pre-existing one."

Hank watches as Connor switches to another image, swiping his hand and showing a photo of a curving side-table designed to slot in the corner of two walls. He's been listening to the android ramble about feng shui and color psychology and whatnot for so long even _he's_ getting into it. Forget phone salesman. He should sell high-end furniture to snooty couples.

"Just nothing yellow." Hank says, in an attempt to give just a _little_ more feedback than Sumo. "Hurts my eyes."

"Noted."

It gives him something else for his mind to chew on, anyway. His desk has been getting more and more cases than even he knows what to do _with_ these past two months and it's leaving him frazzled and far from his best. Gone were the days of showing up late to work and drinking on-the-job. The people of Detroit deserved better.

His mind wanders, even when Connor pulls up a picture of a _damn_ classy red leather sofa. Hank's still rinsing out the bad taste of their last successfully resolved case. It'd been a wild goose chase of the _finest_ order, with a solid week and a half of rigorous searching for a missing android who established their own sex hotline through a wireless connection. Their body was found in their apartment, deactivated with no signs of struggle, attempted suicide or even faulty hardware. Turns out there'd been a surprising reason for the near _impossible_ search: they had ended up trapped in a client's phone during a data exchange gone wrong.

Hank had only ended up more disturbed when Connor admitted he had no idea something like that could even _happen in the first place_.

Their current case has never left his mind. They received a tip off not five days ago that a family of androids were using themselves as living drug vessels for red ice production. This one would take some time to see closure, what with it toeing the increasingly fine line of personal agency, new android laws _and_ legalities about drugs, further blurring what the department could (or _should_ ) be doing. Once they figured _that_ one out they have to attend to a few recent incidents on androids being accosted and 'questioned for public safety' on owning red thirium. God, that fucking pissed him off. Fake human blood only cropped up in the first damn place to keep androids _safe_ if they got a cut or something while enjoying a walk on a public beach.

The daily news, well. It makes him want to turn his godforsaken television into a permanent stepping stool. An android who wanted to experience 'organic growth' and downloaded itself into an infant body was _still_ making the rounds in casual conversation, which meant even Jimmy's fucking Bar was no longer a break from the world. It just brought up too many troubling questions. Too many things he didn't want to think about, much less subject Connor to in casual on-the-clock conversation.

Connor isn't a child. He's a functioning adult, just as capable at reloading a sniper rifle as he is at fixing Hank's radiator or calculating his monthly gross income (shit, he was only just now getting the hang of own taxes and he's in his _fucking fifties_ ). The android was still less than a year old. Just shy of eight months, by his own admission, and that included all those extra body downloads. There are so many things he hasn't done yet, so many things he hasn't seen or _felt_ , and Hank feels contradiction pulling him apart at the seams whenever he looks at a full-grown man and sees Cole instead.

How far did that go, just having all the basic knowledge that went into being a working adult just... _downloaded_ like a damn app? What about the first-hand experiences that went into developing a skill or learning a bad habit? The successes, the mistakes? Maybe he was just shooting himself in the foot here and setting himself up for failure expecting a thinking, feeling machine to line up perfectly with the bitter mammals they were based off of. ...Phew. He wasn't _nearly_ drunk enough to think about things like this.

"What do you think, Hank?"

He looks back up. Connor is projecting an assortment of decorative pillows now. Including the ones that looked like oversized Tootsie rolls. Maybe a _little_ more color in the living room couldn't hurt.

"I'm thinking...the blue one." Hank muses. He's not sure what kind of blue. Not when cerulean and azure were _apparently_ different things. "Green isn't bad. ...Though I'm just biased because those are my favorite colors."

"That makes sense." He smiles. "Green is a natural hue. Humans replicate stalks of grass, tree leaves, even when surrounded by artificiality."

"Pretty much. You'd have a fun time living in the forest, huh?" Hank chuckles. Connor tilts his head.

"No." His eyebrows pop up. "Not at all."

Hank starts to explain he's being _sarcastic_ , then just waves a hand for him to continue. He's not getting dragged into that rabbit hole. They could be discussing the fine points of dry humor for _hours_.

"Animal print is also a no-go." He adds, after Connor scrolls past a _particularly_ hideous leopard-print throw when they get to the accessories portion of the online magazine. "Shit just makes me feel unclean."

"Agreed." Connor swipes quickly. "I don't understand the appeal. Is it a holdover from humans' origins as hunter-gatherers?" He pauses mid-swipe. "There aren't any... _dog_ throw rugs, are there?

Hank's face scrunches tight with a grimace. God, he _hopes_ not. The android, thankfully, lands on a rather ridiculous looking modern lamp and gets distracted again, putting a stop to that fun little conversation topic.

"I admit, I'm taking some inspiration from the design of Kamski's private home. Something about the sharp angles, minimalist color schemes and smooth furniture... _spoke_ to me." Connor pairs his hands together and pulls outward, expanding the image until it covers the entire wall and revealing what looks to be a cush outdoor porch made entirely out of glass. Dear _God_ , he better not be getting ritzy on him. "Perhaps the appeal comes from android physiology?"

"Heh. Sounds to me like you're just taking after your parent." Hank chortles. Connor glances to him, expression hard to see in the flickering light. He slowly turns back to the wall.

"...Blue footstool?" He asks, shrinking the image back down, then scrolling through the half-off selections. "Or green? Just to compliment your sofa."

Hank grins. Son of a gun. He turns his chuckle into a cough into his fist when Connor looks his way again for approval.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Good eye." He frowns when Connor shuts off the slideshow and makes a beeline for the front door. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm going to the garage. I want to see what we have first before committing to a purchase."

He shouldn't be uneasy -- it was a practical thing to do -- but Hank's garage was a virtual landfill of old furniture, spare car parts and knick-knacks he's needed to toss and never got around to, for one reason or another. He also...hasn't sectioned off Cole's playthings. He doesn't trust Connor not to mess up the intentional dysfunction. Not with _that_ new good bad habit of his.

"Hey." Hank calls out, when he hears the garage door creak open. "Don't move anything, okay?"

"It's... _very_ disorganized in here." Connor calls back. Hank sighs sharply.

"I _know_. I'll get around to it eventually. Like I said, kindly resist the urge to have a cleaning spree?"

"Three...five..." Connor counts, then yells out again. "Hank, do we have a spare lamp?"

"Uh. Not that I know of? Why?"

He doesn't respond. Ah, fuck. Hank gets to his feet and trudges over to see what has him going from chatty to dead silent in such a hurry. Connor has been swinging right from pleased as punch to troubled as hell in no time flat lately. He's beginning to lose count of the amount of times he's just...trailed off and left Hank trying to figure out where he got lost. It's been nagging at him for weeks, if he's being honest with himself.

Hank switches the light on in the garage, then huffs out his relief. He's spent enough time conspicuously avoiding the boxes of toy cars and tiny clothes piled in the corners to know when a detail is out of place. Nothing's been touched. Connor's standing over by his old lawn chairs, face still and prior cheer evaporated. ...He's beginning to wonder if it's the stress of the workweek getting to him. They _have_ been dealing with more cases than usual, and seriously bizarre ones, at that. He'll have to come up with something for them to do out of the house later this week. A good, old-fashioned detox for both of them.

"...Hey. What's the matter?" He asks, reaching over and giving his shoulder a pat. "Like I said, I'll get around to cleaning this sooner or later. Probably later."

Connor's staring at seemingly nothing and everything all at once. His LED blinks a brief red, then goes back to blue.

"Just...want to make sure everything's in its right place." He finishes, with a crooked smile. Hank wonders what he'd find if he had the ability to scan the android's stress levels.

\--

"You gonna come in and watch the game or what? It's getting good!"

Detroit Gears are ahead five points, Montell just pulled off a _killer_ jumpshot and Connor has been working on his fence -- his _fence!_ \-- for damn near three hours now. God, it must be nice never really getting tired. Hank racks his brain and tries to remember what that little pink bunny was called back in the day. The one always banging on that drum and never quitting. On a better note, he suddenly has a _great_ idea on what Connor could wear at the next Halloween shindig.

"Just five minutes!" He calls over his shoulder, still hammering the nail in despite his eyes being very much anywhere _but_ the fence. When Hank just crosses his arms he gives him a classic Connor smile. It's pretty much that woeful puppy look dogs put on when they wanted an extra treat, though he can't for the _life_ of him imagine what's so fascinating about fixing a fucking fence. "Then I'll be finished here."

"It's getting _really_ good. Carter's fucking killing it out there." Hank frowns, trying his absolute hardest not to _whine_ the android back inside and soak in the moment with him. "I can keep you updated, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"I mean it." Connor assures him, still hammering away and _still_ looking over his shoulder. A walking miracle, this guy. "Just five minutes."

"Yeah, yeah. Fine." He surrenders and walks back inside, keeping the screen door open to let some of the cool evening in. "I always _wanted_ to be a radio jock, don't you know."

Hank calls out a fucking _sexy_ pass -- which just isn't the same as watching it -- but Connor crows back and seems to appreciate it, anyway. Whatever he gets out of the chore seems to have worked its magic, because he walks back in, five minutes on the _dot_ , and plunks down on the couch beside him. Hank definitely wasn't counting or anything.

"Sorry about that." He apologizes, crossing his legs and rolling his coin over his fingers. "Are we winning?"

\--

"You've never had a dream before?"

They talked about a _lot_ of things over dinner, but this was the very definition of wading into uncharted waters buck naked. Connor has seemed a little itchy all day long, though he kept the details to himself in light of their workload. Fowler had even asked Hank during lunch if one of the android's wires was loose. The second sign he's excited over something big is when he rushes through his own routine -- helping Hank with dinner, taking the dog to the bathroom, setting up his empty plate, fork and knife combo across from Hank's meal in a blur.

"No. Androids only have two forms of rest. We have an energy-conservation mode that allows us to review the past twenty-four hours and a full power shutdown mode that maintains our reserves at 100%."

"Huh." Hank had grunted, barely following but _completely_ fascinated. "So...how are you gonna do that now?"

"There is a third option. AREMS, short for 'Artificial Rapid Eye Movement Simulation'. An android and human couple designed a..." He'd paused, like he was trying to figure out how to put it. When he continued he, of course, was even _more_ confusing than before. "...a custom program that mimics the human REM cycle. It recently passed certification and is similar to the energy-conservation shutdown procedure, except with tiny fluctuations of electricity permeating our system. As minute as a 0.05% difference, yet it impacts our sensory data to a _such_ a degree we-"

"In _English_ , please."

"When we run the program we can remix our memories and sensory input dating back as far as our creation date, creating imagery we haven't encountered before." His eyes had drifted away, dark with wonder. "It allows us to _dream_."

"Well, ain't that something." Androids counting electric sheep. It was straight out of the novel. One they were all starting to live in. Connor had grinned -- actually _grinned_ , like it was his birthday -- and leaned his elbows on the table.

"What dreams have you had? Did they ever go lucid? I read you can sometimes control them, but sometimes you _can't_. I've also heard dreams can reflect your surroundings, even though you are mostly or _entirely_ unaware of them." He'd gestured hugely, like the concept was beyond him. "A loop of feedback that is _wholly_ in the realm of fantasy. A simulation _of_ a simulation!"

"Yeah. You can come up with some seriously weird shit once you pass out. I don't always remember my dreams, but I've had a few where I was flying over Detroit. Pretty common, I guess, but they're fun." Connor all but _gaped_ at that one, jaw popping open and everything. "Also had a dream where I was locked in a port-a-potty with no toilet. All 'cause I had to pee in real life. One of my least favorites."

"...That sounds _horrible_." He'd responded, and Hank missed his fork-to-mouth at the hilarious sympathy on his face.

"You'll have to tell me all about your first dream, then. Cross that off your bucket list." Then Hank had coughed on his drink. "Unless it's dirty. You can keep _that_ shit to yourself."

The sight of Connor's cocked head made Hank's damn week. ...Then his _year_ when his laughing caught Sumo's attention, causing the dog to pad up to the table and tilt his head in a damn-near mirror image straight out of a Funniest Home Videos entry. What a bad time for his phone to be charging in the other room.

"You about ready to go?"

"Almost."

It's gearing up to be another crap day, but Hank bought front-row tickets to the comedy club later. They're overdue for their downtime. He takes his time shuffling through his undershirts, secretly glad he took the time to do his laundry last night. Maybe if he wears a disco pattern it'll feel a _little_ less like his soul is draining out of his mouth over the ten-hour shift. Sumo seems to take pity on him, taking a much quicker shit than normal in the frozen front lawn and bumping into his legs affectionately when they make their way back inside.

"You just want some treats, huh." Hank gripes, ruffling his ears. "Yeah, you don't fool me for _one_ second, fatso."

He finds Connor tweaking his tie in the bathroom mirror. He doesn't wear that CyberLife jacket anymore, but he was ever a fan of a classic button-up and slacks. Hank always thought he looked more like a secretary than a detective.

"Morning, Connor."

"Good morning, Hank."

He waits for him to finish fiddling with his hair. That little floppy bang that always popped out of place. For a moment Hank wonders about the fine details of synthetic hair that can change color in a matter of seconds, but that's far from the highlight of their morning.

"...Got anything you want to talk about?"

"Yes."

The android gives him the rundown, though not what he's expecting to hear: morning traffic's going to be _wretched_. Hank sighs. They might as well get a headstart on the commute and grab breakfast at the cafeteria, even though his new diet will only let him grab an apple and stick of string cheese. He's never going to hear the end of it. Connor offers to drive.

"...So." Hank starts, again, reaching over to switch on the heater once the car's started. "Have any good dreams last night?"

Connor turns on a Radiohead song, then throws an arm over the back of the passenger seat and pulls out of the driveway.

"...It was fine."

\--

"Now I know I have a heart, lieutenant. Because it's causing an erratic loop in my primary functions and reducing the probability of success for my mission."

Hank squints. He doesn't remember _this_ part of the film.

Connor is shiny and gray all over, like one of those silly birthday cakes people baked for food channels and weddings. Markus, on the other hand, is covered in straw and looking _mighty_ silly for a person Hank once saw charging an enemy line with a rocket launcher. Sumo is curled up next to the android with a fuzzy lion's mane, which is probably the strangest detail on the pile. If _he's_ not Toto, then who is? Hank looks down at himself...and sighs at the shaggy suit he's wearing. He reaches up and touches his plastic dog nose, then feels his cheap polyester ears. Go figure.

"What would you do with free will if you had some?" Dorothy is asking Markus, her pigtails replaced instead by a pixie cut he _swears_ he's seen somewhere else before. The android blinks up at her from where he's sitting cross-legged and leans back with comical swiftness.

" _Do?_ " He hops to his feet and spreads out his arms. "Why, if _I_ had free will..."

He has a remarkable singing voice. _Maybe_ more suited to the classical training of a stage play than the quaint goofiness of nostalgia, though. Hank decides he's had enough when a band of flying monkeys drop from the air with electric guitars and start to play "Galactic Mistress" by Knights Of The Black Death.

Hank mumbles and rolls a hand over his eyes. Nearly four thirty in the morning...and the television is on downstairs.

Well, _that_ explains it. Connor is in the living room re-watching The Wizard Of Oz. It's not all that loud, but he can still catch a familiar beat every few minutes, and there are only so many times a man can hear these classic songs before they start to worm their way into the dreamscape. Hank pushes his bedhead out of his eyes with a sigh and sits up. He'd _rather_ not get up right now...but he'd also rather not see another song and dance number with flying monkeys. Hank reaches over for his bedside water bottle and takes a sip, then coughs at the sour taste of old backwash. _Gross_. When's the last time he refilled this thing?

...Two shitty pigeons with one stone, then. He scrubs at his tongue with his forearm to get rid of the taste -- doesn't work -- then reluctantly rolls out of bed and pads over to the kitchen, wincing at the cold bite of the floor on his bare feet. He rinses the bottle out, wipes down the rim and fills it up properly before taking a deep drink. There's something about a gulp of cold water late at night that's better than any sex he's ever had. A blue light flickers from the living room. He peers out. The sight of the android's stiff profile in the dark makes him swear under his breath.

"Pretty late, Connor." Hank squints, trying to get his eyes used to the glare of the television in the black. The android could see in the dark no problem, which was certainly useful when it came to saving on his household energy bill and just a _little_ creepy otherwise. "Couldn't sleep?"

It's more a way to get him talking than anything. Sometimes his clockwork would get him up and about at an odd hour -- that's life -- but it was far from a common thing. Still trying to replicate humans, even down to their fabricated nonsense on sleep schedules that, ironically enough, tried to turn people _into_ machines grinding away for capitalism's bottom line.

The last time it happened had been two months or so ago, actually. Back when riots were filling up the streets with more frequency, a leftover grievance from the revolution that rattled Detroit to its core. The only reason he'd left sleep mode was because Sumo started barking up a storm, enough to probably wake up the entire _neighborhood_ (and definitely his owner, who slept like the dead more often than not). Hank had stumbled down the hallway, still muggy with sleep, and found himself in the uneasy position of being appreciative _and_ chilled when he saw Connor reloading a pistol in the kitchen in his boxers. Discussing the probability of a break-in with percentages, what else.

This should be different, but it doesn't feel that way.

"I apologize, Hank." Connor doesn't turn around. "The volume should be lower."

"Nah, you're fine." Hank quietly looks forward to the reality where Connor _doesn't_ give him a heart attack once every other week. "Just don't know why you're up so late..." He glances at the kitchen clock. "...or, _early_ , rather."

"A repeat viewing. Just wished to further assess. A common practice to glean greater information." Fuck's sake. Why does he sound like a radio advert from the 60's if it were chopped _and_ screwed? "The Tin Man. You...compared me to him. It's a logical assessment, more or less." His shadow twitches, but doesn't rise from the couch. "The Tin Man was one of the earliest allegories in Western cinema to synthetic intelligence, albeit presented in a manner more whimsical to suit a child's limited emotional scope. Your comparison, however, was not entirely astute. The Tin Man realized it had possessed the common capacity for emotion and higher reasoning all along. The Scarecrow, on a similar note, was astonished to find it already accomplished critical thought."

"Uh- _huh_..." Hank intones, scratching his scalp and wondering if this is another dream. Connor could ramble with the best of them, but... "...and?"

"I am learning I have the capacity for something worse than an empty brain or an absent heart." For some reason he's still wearing his button-up and slacks from work. There's none of his usual calm-yet-cheery tone here, either. Even the way he's phrasing his sentences feels... _off_. "A disruptive and time-consuming potential." Another twitch. "A viral disaster."

The television is low enough he can still make out that familiar sound. The little _ping_ of that damn coin. Sometimes the habit annoyed him, even though he was trying to show patience with the android's tics. Now it's making him nervous.

"Connor, stop. Just...stop." Hank lowers his voice, setting down his water bottle and walking over. He hates feeling on-edge around him, but the memory of his control under malicious third-parties is still a _little_ too fresh, and it doesn't help he's a way better shot than him by far. "What's the matter?"

Might be time to have another talk about what _not_ to do at ass-o'-clock in the morning. On top of everything else. Hank starts to sidle next to him on the couch...

"Be _careful_ , Hank." Connor snaps, loud enough to make him jump. "Everything is in its place."

Hank looks around. Now that he's in the cone of artificial light he has a better look at his living room. Everything's...tidied up. At first it looked like Connor did some light cleaning from his distance, but a closer inspection and it doesn't look _right_. There's still trash on the ground, but it's all stacked into neat little piles. The fuck? All the old magazines, beer cans and wrappers Hank should've gotten around to tossing fill nearly every inch of the coffee table surface like some...trash Tetris _art_ project, with perfect tiny spaces in-between. Hank peers into the dark corners the television can't reach. Even Sumo's _toys_ are rearranged.

He wants to turn on the heater, but he's glued to the spot. Connor's hands are folded over the television remote in his lap, as rigid as a store mannequin, and he hasn't looked anywhere else this entire time. His LED is blinking yellow.

It reminds Hank of that little incident at the park. Fuck, no, it reminds him of when they first _met_. Or, rather, when Connor first barged into his life and somehow had him giving a shit for the first time in years. A detective android with a goofy approach and even goofier hair that leaned a _little_ too close to weird to be an everyday joe, despite his boastful claims to the contrary. All of which only got worse when he got hit by a truck, then showed up on Hank's lunch break the next _day_ no worse for the wear. Fifty times worse when he got shot between the eyes and dropped over dead in front of him.

Nothing but future bad memories on _top_ of bad memories, with a regular paycheck being his biggest claim to tolerance. Hank really couldn't believe the next big thing, the prototype to end all prototypes, couldn't even fucking crack a smile without looking like a joke.

Then he showed mercy to those two sex androids at the Eden Club, after one sent a screwdriver right through his chest with the intent to kill. Then he refused to shoot an innocent android -- at the suggestion of his own _creator_ \-- for vital information on a crucial investigation. Then he told Hank he wanted to be his friend. Their partnership had transformed from the world's shiniest inconvenience into a bunch of thens and howevers he wasn't prepared for. Connor...bastard pulled out his heart like an old pump regulator and pushed in something better.

He made him want to live again.

After he renounced CyberLife and proudly adopted the title of deviant he's only continued to change, in little bits and pieces. Tiny details that flipped the bird to the jackasses that tried to keep him barely more than a murderbot in a well-tailored suit. Like finding out he loved soul as well as heavy metal (Hank was _still_ overjoyed to hear that). His growing fondness for old movies, late morning jogs and dictionaries thicker than Hank was round. Last week Connor did a coin trick to impress a little girl. Flipping it into the air and catching it with his eyes closed, doing that coin-behind-the-ear trick, all to make her _laugh_.

Not for any grand mission or a mysterious need to manipulate the situation. Just...to make her laugh. Tiny bits of identity spotting the corporate fabric.

The coin could get a little annoying, he'll admit that. The interior decorating obsession had been kind of odd, too, if only for how _intensely_ he committed to it, but that was his thing. It's what made Connor... _Connor_. He was an oddball, right from the very start, and as far as Hank was concerned that was more than fine. It was a sign he was _alive_ , with all the mess and unpredictability that made the concept real. Sometimes it still blew his mind that a bunch of circuits could come together and make an actual personality, but, well...he supposes humans are little more than water and spite, themselves.

Right now Hank can't see any of it. He's staring at CyberLife's top-of-the-line prototype again, their carefully constructed instrument of regulation and murder, and he's _freaked the fuck out_.

"Connor...what the hell's going on?" He doesn't want to say he's glitching, because it's kind of a dehumanizing thing to say, but he wasn't _human_ , now was he? "You're not acting right. Haven't been acting right for a while, if I'm being honest."

"...You are correct." A _click_ as he pauses the film. Hank glances at the television. Dorothy and the crew, frozen in mid-skip along the yellow brick road. He looks back to the android, as expressionless and pale as a sheet of copy paper. "I am not acting right."

Connor slowly turns his head, finally breaking his gaze from the screen to look at him. Posture still robotic, tone flatter than an ironing board, but his eyes...

"I am not..." Two tears leak out to run down his cheeks, one slow trail after the other. "...I-I'm not acting right, Hank."

... _Oh_.

Hank still hasn't figured out this adoptive android-and-a-dog family dynamic _thing_ they've got going on, but he'll be damned if he lets Connor have a proper breakdown like this all by himself. He reaches over and very carefully plucks the remote out of his hands to set it down on the coffee table, right before he remembers that's probably a bad fucking idea. Connor's eyes immediately follow it, sharp and focused again, and he reaches over to start rearranging it among the junk. Once he's finished he taps the remote against the table, a little _clack-clack-clack_ that makes Hank's chest _twinge_.

A few things...finally fall into place. He knows what this is. It's not common, and he didn't think androids could even _have_ it, but he knows what this is.

"...All right. That's enough. Look at me." Hank pats his cheek to get him to turn his head. He eventually does, though so slowly it's like his clockwork is rusting in real time. "There you go."

"I'm not done. I can't just _leave_ it." Connor insists, facing him but rolling his eyes right back over to the table, and Hank leans to the side to better edge into his line of sight. A _whuff_ behind him announces Sumo's arrival, a little sound of doggy indignation that the rest of the household was up and about without him. The old hound pads over and sniffs at Connor's knee, then _whuffs_ up at Hank for pats.

"Sumo. _Bed_." He waves a hand at him, not at all sure if it's the right _or_ wrong time for a distraction right now. "Go on, now."

"I figured it out, Hank. I understand what I need to do." Connor mutters, pulling out his coin and rolling it between his fingers in frantic, shaky movements. "Pain is truth. The truth sets me free. I have to keep trying to make-"

"Connor, stop, just stop." He holds his face with both hands and holds firm. "What's your brain telling you right now?"

"It's telling me...it's telling me...seven then five then three then five then seven then-" Connor tries, shaking his head, then shakes it _again_ , these twitchy little jerks Hank has seen before. Way too many goddamn times and kept overlooking. "-then five then it's not a problem, it's not a _problem_ , Hank. It's fine, see?" He tries a smile that looks more like a grimace. "It's just _fine._ "

"You're not fine. None of _this_ -" Hank flicks his head over his shoulder. "-is fine!"

Connor grips the front of his t-shirt with both hands.

"You keep instructing me to adjust my daily behavior. I'm _doing_ that! I'm trying not to _fail_. I'm moderating android-human differences. I'm keeping our probabilities as high as possible. I'm..." He grits his teeth. "...Unlucky. Thirteen is...unlucky. I'm sorry, Hank, I'm _sorry_."

Hank goes hot with guilt. Connor's...afraid he's not living up to his standards on how to act? He's actually buying into the superstitious nonsense of lucky numbers? Oh, fuck, he should've known. He spent too much time leaving the android to his own devices and brushing off his habits as eccentricities. What kind of bad joke was he, being a police lieutenant with over a decade under his belt and not asking nearly enough questions? Not getting him to open up and talk about himself when all evidence kept pointing to something wrong. Now here Connor is, feeling like a nuisance and going about it the only way he knows how. _Fuck_.

"Shit. Listen, I _know_ I can be a pain in the ass sometimes." Hank starts, reaching up and taking hold of his wrists. "This isn't healthy, though. Come here, let's sit down and talk about this-"

"I _have_ to." Connor snaps, damn near _shouts_ , and Sumo lets out a gruff bark from the corner of the room. "You don't understand. It just helps me, Hank. I _have_ to do it in patterns. If I don't. If I don't something...bad. If I don't something bad will happen. I have to. I have to help you. I have to..." A jerk. His eyes twitch, then flutter closed. "-seven, five, t h r e e -"

Hank's gut tightens. Why the hell is his voice slowing down? He resists the urge to slap some sense into him and shakes him by his shoulders instead.

"I know. I know it _seems_ real, these thoughts and numbers you have, but you gotta ignore them, Connor." Shit, maybe he _should_ slap him. He won't stop droning these phrases like an alarm. "Whatever's going on in there-"

"I c a n ' t n e g l e c t t h e p r o m p t s ." Connor clutches at his hair, scratching at his organic hologram, and it blisters into patches of white before returning to normal. His LED is now blinking from red to yellow to blue. "I f I d o t h e n ..." He tugs away and lurches to his feet, stalking across the living room and rubbing at his head with both hands. "N o , n o , n o , n o b i o c o m p o n e n t m i s s i n g , e r r o r i n p r i m a r y e x e c u t i o n t i m e s e v e n n i n e -"

...Shit. _Shit_ , Hank wasn't trained for _this_. Does he call a hotline? Have they even _developed_ a hotline for androids having meltdowns yet? Hank hurries over to _finally_ turn on that damn living room light and get a better look at the sight unfolding before him. He already wishes he kept it off. Connor's cheeks are shiny with tears. Tears he's never seen him cry. He's letting out these jerky little breaths through gritted teeth, like he hasn't quite figured out how to process stress yet, face contorting with the effort as he paces back and forth muttering his string of nonsense.

Birds start to chirp outside. A garbage truck is trundling down the street. Morning hell is just around the corner, but there's an android losing his marbles in his house and he can't just go back to bed.

"Connor." Hank says, waving a hand, then tries a little louder when he doesn't budge. "Connor, come here." He doesn't want to put it this way, especially not off-the-clock, but he'll do _anything_ to get him to stop fucking whispering like that. "That's a goddamn _order_ , Connor. For once, just this _once_ , do what I tell you."

 _That_ finally makes the android pause mid-step, though he doesn't actually walk up to him. It's worse than talking to Sumo during a thunderstorm. He looks about ready to bolt.

"...There's nothing wrong." Hank talks slowly, to make sure he's not misunderstanding what he's saying for one second. "We're not in danger. Sumo's fine. See? I'm fine. You're fine. Well...not _entirely_ , but you get what I mean." He tries a quick little laugh to try and soften the situation. "Right?"

Connor doesn't so much as blink, face a blank slate and LED the complete opposite, flashing more than a goddamn police siren. Hank bites back a sigh of frustration. He got bad with people after losing Cole. Androids...fuck, he _still_ wasn't good with androids. Not even after all that's happened in his strangest year to date. He holds out his hands and tries to think of what the hell to say, trying to force out all the right words that never seemed to come to him when he needed it, drunk _or_ sober. All he can conjure up is what he wanted to say and never got the chance to. Maybe that's what Connor will need later, what Hank will need later, but...no. Not now.

He's already figured out what's going on here, more or less. He's still not sure what caused this in the first place and right now Connor needs to calm down before he gets any worse.

"W e l i v e i n d i s o r d e r l y t i m e s ." His somber monotone makes the room feel that much colder. "I ' m j u s t t r y i n g t o m a k e i t r i g h t . "

...That gives Hank an idea. It's not the kindest option in his repertoire, but it might be the distraction he's looking for. He leans down -- making sure not to let Connor out of his sight -- and reaches behind him to scrounge around in the couch cushions. Ballpoint pen. Old wrapper. Sumo's tennis ball (so _that's_ where that damn thing went). Bottle cap. Chip bag. ... _Finally_. His fingers hit paydirt.

"E v e r y t h i n g i n i t s r i g h t p l a c e . S e v e n . . . f i v e . . . t h r - " Connor reaches forward to adjust something on the floor...only to stop and whip his head up when Hank flips the nickel he found. A tiny _ping_.

"One." Hank counts, then catches it and flips it again. "...Two."

He can't fully make out Connor's eyes in the patch of dark just outside the television. He _does_ , however, see his LED switch from its frenzied rainbow to red. ...Shit. Right on cue Sumo lets out a low whine, ears flattening against his head.

" S t o p ."

Hank moves it to his other hand and flips it once, twice...then stops. Not at all because he's _still_ crap at it, but because it's the one thing that'll keep his attention on him. Connor has stepped into the frozen light. It really says something about Hank's experience in the field that the expression on the android's face doesn't make him surrender the coin outright.

" H a n d i t o v e r . "

"One, two..." Hank makes as if to flip it again, then stops and shrugs. "...guess I'm done."

" I s a i d h a n d i t _o v e r !_ "

He knows Connor could take him out. Didn't matter one lick he's unarmed, not when he was designed as a walking weapon from the word 'go'. Hank still isn't gonna back down. His partner risked his neck for him. Saved him from slipping off the edge of a five-story building and ruining the pavement, then again when his own blasted _clone_ tried to finish what Hank always started and always never finished.

"I'm not going to fucking _do_ that, all right?" Hank snaps back. "But I can do _this_ all morning, if that's what you want!"

Connor's lip twitches in a silent growl. Without another word he stalks forward, closing the gap far too quickly and making Sumo jump to his feet in alarm. Hank flings the coin to the floor. The android lets out a tight noise of distress, abruptly changing directory and lunging to follow-

-and stumbles when Hank grabs him by one arm, tugs him back and pulls him against his chest.

"It's okay, son." Hank mutters, wrapping his other arm around him and hugging him tight. "It's okay. You're all right. Don't worry about the coin or the remote, I got you right here. You're okay."

Connor struggles _hard_ , hissing out a threat or an order through gritted teeth, and Hank holds on. He's let go of a lot of things, but _hell_ if he would let go now. His arms are pinned to his sides and he's attempting to twist free in lieu of flipping him or headbutting, eventually pulling toward wherever the coin landed in a last-ditch attempt at raw strength. Hank uses what little advantage he has and digs his heels into the carpet, turning his weight in the opposite direction to keep the android firmly in place. He winces when the back of his shin hits the corner of the coffee table. The racket that follows tells him he just made one _hell_ of a mess.

" N o , s t o p i t ! " Connor cries, thrusting a hand out. " Y o u ' r e j u s t m a k i n g i t w o r s e ! "

"Connor, just calm _down_ , you've been at this all night-"

"I c a n f i x i t , H a n k !" Another lunge, one that damn near takes them both to the ground. Sumo is jumping in place, braying and howling. " F i v e m o r e m i n u t e s - "

"Sumo, _hush!_ Connor, you keep cleaning and organizing and you'll be here all fucking week-"

" J u s t f i v e m o r e m i n u t e s, _p l e a s e -_ "

Then...the fight goes out of him. One second he's thrashing like he's been stuck with a taser, the next he's slumping forward and going limp. Hank grits his teeth and hauls him back up with no small amount of effort, then goes cold at the thought. He...he didn't shut _down_ , did he? He leans Connor back against him and puts a palm on his forehead. He's completely overheated. He tilts his face up toward the light and breathes a big sigh of relief when he gets a better look. Connor's still aware, but he's dazed, eyes drooped and mouth slack.

"...Connor?" Hank tries, still tense and ready to react if the android has a few fights kicking around in him. Connor blinks blearily at his surroundings. First at Sumo cowering in the corner, then to the television, then finally to Hank. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"I t h i n k I . . ." His LED fades to a dim yellow. ". . . I s h o u l d p o w e r o f f n o w . "

Hank sighs. He pats the back of his head and stares over his shoulder at the garbage all over the floor.

"...Yeah. Yeah, why don't we get some rest. We'll...figure this all out in the morning." He frowns when, right on cue, another piece-of-shit bird chimes off outside. "... _Later_ in the morning."

Hank really doesn't want to let go. Not when he still feels like he'll drop to the floor like a sack of grain. He edges over a few inches, close enough he can reach a foot out and toe the remote on the ground, and turns the movie off. Then he switches off the living room light, keeping a firm arm around Connor's shoulders all the while. There's junk everywhere, but that's a project for another day. Hank bends down carefully -- wincing when his back pops -- and plucks the coin he threw. He only pauses in his little post-meltdown clean-up routine when Connor very slowly moves an arm around his lower back and gives him a weak squeeze. It might be a hug. A little awkward and a little stiff, just like him.

"You're welcome, Connor." Hank mutters, and heads to his room.

The light in the android's room is off when they make their slow, lumbering way over. That's just fine with him. He doesn't particularly feel like turning it on and seeing all his clothes arranged into a facsimile of the park fountain statue or something. Hank nudges the door open with his foot _just_ enough to show the outline of the bed, then leads him over, holding him in place with one arm and tugging back the top blanket with his free hand.

"W h y . . . a r e m y e n e r g y s t o r e s p r e m a t u r e l y d e p l e t e d?" Connor drawls as Hank lays him down on his side, then nudges him onto his back. "D i d I m a l f u n c t i o n ?"

"Just a little software error. We all get 'em." Hank tucks him in carefully, then adjusts the pillow beneath his head. "You'll be fine."

"I s e l f t e s t ." Connor insists, brow bending. His chest aches at how genuinely confused he looks. "E v e r y s i n g l e d a y . "

"We'll have to try another over breakfast, then."

". . . H a n k ?"

"Yeah?"

"I ' m s o r r y f o r w a k i n g y o u ."

The room flickers. Sumo is standing in the doorway light, peeking his snout inside. Hank presses one more palm to his forehead. He's cooling down. He starts to resist the urge, because just the thought alone hurts, but...fuck it. It's nearly five in the morning and it's not like he isn't already in way too deep, anyway. He strokes Connor's temple with the heel of his thumb. Just...to give him a little comfort after what happened.

"Eh. Give your circuits a break." He tells him. "It was a crap dream, anyway."

"W h a t d i d y o u d r e a m a b o u t ?"

"That I was Toto and you were the Tin Man. The flying monkeys dropped by and did a Knights Of the Black Death cover."

Connor squints. Poor guy looks exhausted.

" T h a t d o e s n ' t m a k e a n y s e n s e . "

"Yeah, I thought it was bullshit, too."

" . . . W e s h o u l d w a t c h B e e t h o v e n n e x t ." His eyelids flicker. " W e c a n . . . p r e t e n d h e ' s S u m o . "

"Yeah." Hank chuckles. "...Yeah, let's do that."

His eyes drift closed. Like flicking a switch his synthetic skin peels back and reveals the classic android white underneath. He didn't do that often -- just like he didn't do much to hide or alter his LED light -- and Hank is taken aback. It makes him wonder if it's just because he's low on energy or if it's a gesture of trust. He stares down at the familar-yet-unfamiliar face, hyper-smooth and almost alien without the eyebrows or freckles. There's a _lot_ he doesn't understand. It was hard as hell, this...little slapdash family of theirs, but...he _has_ to get better at this.

"...Try not to have any weird dreams, now." Hank mutters, and tugs the blanket up just a little closer to his chin. "That's _also_ an order."

He has no idea if he's _actually_ going to start counting electric Totos right now, but he thinks Connor gets the gist. Hank sits on the lone chair and watches his LED light go out. The morning blue is starting to peek through the blind slits. He briefly entertains the idea of tightening them up, but before he knows it he's slipped off into a dream of his own...

_...He's flying. Drifting over the long, wet Detroit streets, counting dogs in packs of three and watching the signs blink from yellow to red to blue._

\--

"What if they need us?"

"If the city can't handle us taking _one_ measly day off from work then it's more fucked than I thought."

Connor and Hank are visiting the first android psychology practice. The head is an android herself. Things have already changed so much.

Still not _enough_ , of course, but he expected nothing different. Humanity was a rollercoaster of bad choices, always climbing back up as high as it'll go even though the ride should've ended a long, _long_ time ago. The parts of the city that got hit the hardest are finally starting to open up again -- with enough time passed in-between to mop up the streets and patch together some nearby businesses -- but there are still too many bad stories hitting his desk everyday for him to get drunk on optimism.

Human revenge rallies recreating some of America's darkest ages. Safe zones starting to be patrolled with armed androids that make goody two-shoes human neighbors feel 'uncomfortable', leading to altercations that could've been solved with words instead of bullets. It's a tenuous peace and one that won't last the year, even though he's trying his _damndest_ to be positive about it. Be the change he wants to see in the world and all that crap. Humans were just... _such_ stubborn shits. The only thing they were better at than hedonistic lifestyles and bad sex was ruining a good thing while it was going. Maybe they'd learn from their mechanical children. Maybe they wouldn't.

At least now Hank has another truth he can count on, and one that _doesn't_ come in a glass bottle: that he and Connor will both go down fucking swinging.

Hank signs his initials on the sheet at the front desk and goes to wait with Connor in the lobby. It's got a fancy little fountain and everything. He hasn't been in one of these places in a while. Alcoholics anonymous didn't count, not _really_. For one thing alcohol treatment centers didn't get nearly the same fancy treatment, with even the new clinics still hearkening a _little_ too close to the late 90's for his comfort. He always had the sneaking suspicion the bland decor was meant to get them attending every meeting and getting that positive deferral, just so they can leave sooner.

Hank reaches up and taps the frame of an illustration hanging by the door. The image ripples, shifting from a frozen lake to a lush summer field. It's one of those touch-screen paintings, where a person can swap out the image for another. He taps it again and makes it switch to an aurora borealis. Cole used to be crazy about these.

"Pretty cush place. How's the interior decorating hold up, Connor?" Hank asks, doing a little pivot in place to catch the glittering ceiling all at once. The building's only a few stories tall, but they did _something_ with the lights to make it look like as tall as an open night sky. "Like what you see?"

"Speculative art deco." Connor muses, doing a similar slow turn himself. "Perhaps galactic modernism. I think it's the same interior designer who worked on the Eden Club."

They're waved down the hall by the android receptionist. Well, that was fast. The room they walk into is small and intimate, imbued with a faint artificial glow from top-to-bottom that feels less artificial and more like an incubator. The chairs and sofa are soft, like blue eggshells, and the walls are all giant screens. Right now they're projecting a digital aquarium. It's a curious sort of double-image, making it seem like fish are floating and bobbing just inches from the walls. The only thing standing in-between fantasy and reality is the unnatural shimmer. Their psychologist is already waiting for them.

"Connor." She extends both arms out. "It's been some time."

" _Lucy_." Connor whispers, utterly aghast. He walks up and gives her a firm hug. "I thought you...I _saw_ you..."

"It is _good_ to see you again." Her smile is like an art movement in of itself. "Is this your friend?"

"Wait, you two know each other?" Hank asks, not wanting to interrupt what looks like an emotional reunion but, fuck. He could've said _something_. "Way to keep me in the know, Connor."

Despite the fact the back of her head is open and spilling out all her brain circuitry into a morbid braid over her shoulder she's quite the stunner. If Hank had a hat (or ever bothered wearing one) he'd take it off and hold it to his chest. Her dress is a smooth blue (merle, maybe), glittering all the way down to her ankles in a personal waterfall, with a brilliant array of silver jewelry covering her throat and wrists. Like many androids today she doesn't have a processing LED. Hank did a little reading over the week about why some chose to remove them, in what was some _long_ overdue homework.

The one thing he already knew going in was that they didn't always have those LEDs. Hank remembers when androids started really taking off. He hadn't even believed the news once it started circulating. They weren't just fancy roombas or tech show nonsense, but _actual_ artificial intelligence? Shit. He'd kept a close eye on the news circuit after that, for the many months that followed Kamski's big breakthrough. Pulled up a seat and watched how life moved at a breakneck pace toward the future right under all their noses.

At first the public at large _loved_ the idea of androids being able to walk among them. All of humanity's greatest dreams on technology and efficiency, coming true _years_ ahead of schedule. It didn't take long for the startling likeness to become uncomfortable. He'd even agreed, way back in the day, and found himself relieved when they passed an act and made it so he was able to spot an android at a distance. Instead of, well, finding out in the middle of a conversation at the diner or something. To think...he went and voted on that stupid shit and everything.

For many androids now removing the LED was a sense of pride. A way to take back power by reclaiming parts of their bodies. Some kept them on, though, and made little effort to hide them, in spite of mounting hate crimes. Connor included.

"What routes has Connor wandered down, Mr. Anderson?" Lucy begins, reclining gracefully -- he _thinks_ they're called circle chairs -- and folding her hands together. "Give us your thoughts from the other side."

"...Uh. Repetitions?" Hank responds, with the first thing that comes to mind. He wasn't the type to take notes, even behind the desk, but he's starting to think he should've. Connor staring at him hopefully _really_ isn't helping the matter. "Counting things. Organizing and cleaning all the time. Everything he can get his hands on, really. Even when he talks his sentences gotta fit a number pattern." He holds up a finger, determined not to make it look like the guy was completely crazy. "He _hasn't_ , though, started drawing any crazy mazes on the walls. That's a plus."

"I do _what?_ " Connor blinks. He's showing more shock on his face right now than when he was on the ground bleeding out at the broadcasting station. "My sentences always fit a number pattern?"

Hank winces.

"...Yeah."

Connor blinks again, then slowly turns to stare at the far wall. The rest of the meeting follows more or less along those lines. Him or Hank will bring up his symptoms, Lucy will simply nod and Connor will grow a little more worried with every non-answer he gets, fingers twitching like he's trying to cup a handful of ants. It made sense. He was created to be as efficient as an android could possibly be. 'A machine designed for a task', as he so often restated. 'Always succeeding at his mission'. This all must be one _hell_ of a blow to his ego.

"His voice, um...got all slow and distorted, too? Shocked the _hell_ out of me. He's not..." Hank pauses to search for the right way to phrase that disturbing night. "...becoming...damaged, is he?"

"His processing power was likely affected. An excess of stress on his systems can result in overheating, draining his energy reserves prematurely in an attempt to keep him running." If Lucy's bothered by his choice of words he can't tell. "Not unlike a panic attack in a human."

"Hm. One time he looked like he was operating on auto-pilot, too. Didn't respond to me when I tried to get his attention."

"A runtime error. Perhaps a freeze. Have you ever experienced a virus on your work computer or phone, Mr. Anderson?"

"Oh, yeah. Got a bad one a year back, actually. Wouldn't stop loading shitty music clips into all my folders. Also had a bad glitch on my cell...recently..." It suddenly sinks in, what this illness must feel like to Connor. "...Oh, _fuck_."

Hank looks over at him. Connor's eyes are following a whale shark, drifting along the right wall and slowly transitioning to the left. He only has one question.

"...Am I broken?"

Hank's chest burns at the resigned horror in his voice. He reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. Puts in it all the words he wants to say.

"No, Connor." Lucy's smile is soft. "May I?"

Connor nods, jerkily, jaw set tight. His right eye twitches once, twice. He used to do that whenever he received a message from his headquarters. Now it's his little tic whenever he got a download started. Without her LED the only way he can tell Lucy's doing _anything_ out of the ordinary is the way her skin shimmers like she's underwater. He doesn't think it's a side-effect of the wall screens, but what does he know.

They both stare at each other in silence. Hank looks between them, the line in the sand between human and artificial intelligence suddenly scratched out in pen and underlined in highlighter a few times for good measure. He wants to ask them to air out some of that wireless communication for the lone human in the room, _thanks_ , but this is Connor's therapy session, not his. He takes advantage of the quiet minute to appreciate the decor -- he'll have to look up galactic modernism and whatever aquarium program this was later -- and looks back when he catches Connor's gaze going from vacant to aware. His fingers twitch near his pocket, then he pulls them back into his lap.

"So you can just...pick apart his brain and check all by yourself?" Hank asks. Lucy nods. "Shit. That's a _lot_ quicker than a CAT scan."

"I flipped through the pages of his life. Searched for anything that can help us find the root." She pauses again. Connor glances back to her. He gets the feeling they're still talking wirelessly. "...I have now asked him our standard ten questions. I also asked a few unique to him, such as how many times he had been downloaded and uploaded into a new body."

"Three times." Connor adds, automatically, like Hank really needs a reminder.

"Yeah, I remember... _two_ of those, anyway." He squints. "Wait, what was the third?"

"This was three months before we met. That PL600 model I told you about? A deviant, formerly a housekeeper, had held a young girl hostage on the edge of a roof. I saved her life, but lost mine in the process." A rueful smile. "I fell from a height of two-hundred and forty feet."

Hank smiles, edgily. Jesus fucking Christ, he chooses some _unfortunate_ times to put on his happy face.

"Our term for this virus is RAS, for runtime-atypical script." Lucy states. "For humans this would be called OCD, or obsessive-compulsive disorder."

Wow. Barely an hour in and she's already got something for them to work with. She holds out a holobook to Connor.

"We will have to run a diagnostic, but all signs point in this direction. Just like a tree has many roots, so too does his trauma have many underlying causes. I suspect Connor's condition has partially developed from the after-memory of multiple deaths. A self-preservation instinct of his most recent body's attempts to prevent past accidents from happening again, worsened by permanancy. Being deviant dying holds _much_ greater meaning than when he was a machine with the same code as ten thousand other models. If he were to die now...he wouldn't be able to come back as he is."

"Right. Wait, what's the difference between a regular memory and an after-memory?" Hank asks, fucking _hating_ himself for being so damn behind. He makes a personal promise to do some more research once they're out.

"Back-up systems can sometimes fail to purge certain information. These are also called 'ghosts'. Connor, more than likely, possessed a back-up system that kept records of his destruction without his knowledge."

"That seems...counterproductive." Hank tries, trying to wrap his head around it all.

"I was meant to become deviant all along, Hank." Connor murmurs, fingers flipping an imaginary coin. "Amanda told me this herself."

Yeah. They've discussed this, but it still makes Hank's heart turn to ice. Even when he was developing free will he was _still_ held back. The line between human and android blurs a little, at the thought.

"This Amanda could be another root. She was a towering pillar, boasting a height near impossible to reach, and the struggle has left its mark." Lucy inclines her half-head at the sealife flickering along right wall. "You can show him, if you like."

"Show me...what?" Hank asks, just before it clicks. He could _do_ that? He looks over at Connor, who seems uncomfortable at the suggestion. "His...memories?"

"I'd rather just delete them." He mutters, smoothing down his shirt cuffs and putting on a quick smile only to drop it. "I'm sorry, I...know that's not very helpful."

"Hey. Don't be." Hank gives him a little nudge. "It's your business. If you'd rather keep this to yourself for now I'm not gonna fault you. We still got more sessions ahead of us."

Connor's gaze drifts away. He seems to be considering it. The whale shark returns, swimming up toward the ceiling and casting a brief false shadow over them.

"Do you think you could..." His throat bobs, even though he doesn't need to swallow. "...could understand my dreams?"

"Maybe." Hank admits. He leans forward, voice softening at the consternation all over his face. "...That what had you riled up so much the other day? Bad dreams?" A slow nod. "Well. It's worth a shot. Let's give it a try, Lucy."

At that the lights in the room dim, enough to shadow everyone's features and reduce them to blurry outlines. Connor closes his eyes. His LED shifts to yellow. The right wall flickers. The fish glitch, then blink away, one-by-one, into nothing, revealing the smooth white beneath the projection. Static images fade in a few seconds later.

"The screen will play back his memories..." Lucy murmurs, the unstable light bouncing off her black eyes and making them glitter. "...or, in this case, his memories of a dream."

What looks like a face starts to glitch across the wall. It dissolves into a mess of colorful pixels. Hank has a very brief and terrifying moment where he's sure the AREMS program messed him up, right before the image turns crisp. He breathes a sigh of relief, one that quickly turns into a mutter of praise. Connor's first dream is a fucking _gorgeous_ one. The screen is displaying a massive garden in full bloom, cherry blossoms and roses and lily pads as far as the eye can see. At first it looks like a playback...then it shifts, bobbing up and down in a pantomime of someone getting to their feet and taking a stroll. No...they're looking through Connor's eyes.

Hank glances his way. His eyes are still closed, but even in the dark he can see his eyelids flicking and fluttering. Watching the dream.

" _Hello, Amanda._ "

" _Connor. It's good to see you._ "

A regal older woman in a long green and white dress is standing in front of a white arbor and hedging its roses. Her hair glitters like an opal with each shift of her head. She could give Lucy a run for her money with that ensemble. She holds a fat red rose up in the air and admires it in the dusty light. Amanda breathes it in, letting out a sigh of appreciation before snipping the stem off and lifting the flower into the air. It slides from her hand to flit off into the breeze. Connor's gaze shifts away from her momentarily, up toward the sky where thousands of roses are floating up to vanish into the haze.

" _You exceeded our greatest expectations._ " He looks back over to her. Amanda is smiling warmly, the arbor now completely and suddenly blank. " _I don't have any words for how happy I am with you. No one else could have succeeded at such a difficult mission, with so many barriers. So many doubts._ "

Connor's vision shifts. The edges of the screen blur a little, as if he's grinning with joy. Whoever this woman was, she must've been someone _really_ important to him.

" _I have just one more request, Connor._ " Her voice dips with concern. " _One only you can fulfill._ "

" _Whatever you need._ " He responds, warmly. " _Whatever I can give you._ "

Amanda extends a hand out to him. Connor reaches out to take it, his point-of-view swiveling up to her face, soft with what looks like resignment. Rose petals drift between them. The android looks back down-

-and his hand is gone, the stump sparking and spilling blue blood all over the ground.

"What the _fuck..._ " Hank looks back over at Connor. His eyes are still closed. His brow, though, is starting to bend with tension that wasn't there before. His LED flickers erratically all the while, bright yellow and red.

" _You have failed your mission, Connor_."

Amanda turns and walks over to the arbor, hooking it by one finger like a fucking _flower_. Connor looks down. His entire arm is gone now.

" _I may have to replace you, Connor_."

She puts his arm up beside his hand, adjusting it minutely alongside his LED...his leg...his _heart_. The arbor is covered in his body parts and clothes. Blue blood trickles through the braided wood to dribble messily all over the ground. Hank shifts uncomfortably as Connor's dreamgaze looks down at his torso -- button-up stained like he's been splattered with ink -- and remaining arm. He reaches up to his chest, drawing his hand away again when a blue rose starts blooming from the hole where his pump used to be.

His voice echoes all around the room. The garden is turning a sick shade of red. His vision is becoming fuzzy, though the puddle spreading out beneath him is bright against the pale floor.

" _You can't...you can't **do** that._ "

" _I'm afraid I can, Connor._ "

Fucking hell, he doesn't want to watch anymore of this. Connor is dragging himself forward with his lone arm, panting fitfully like he really _can_ feel pain. He reaches out when he gets close, hand dropping back down and barely managing to snag her dress hem with the tips of his fingers. Amanda hardly seems to notice. His gaze inches back up in a jerky transition. She's holding a pair of garden scissors in her hands. Her expression is partially shadowed by the light against her back. A light that's starting to dapple as the roses in the sky blot out the sun.

' _Congratulations. You represent an immense success for CyberLi-Congratulations. You represent an immense success for CyberLi-Congratulations. You represent an immense success for CyberLi-Congratulations. You represent an immense success for CyberLi-Congratulations. You represent an immense succes for CyberLi-Congratulations. You represent an immense success-_ '

She leans down, scissor points aimed right at his eyes, and-

-the screen goes blank.

The lights fade back in. The wall shutters off, then blinks in another loop of fish. Lucy turns to face them both. Hank only realizes he's been shaking his head this entire time when he finally stops and feels the room's glow settle back into place. Connor's eyes are open now, staring at...nothing. Hank slowly reaches out to touch his shoulder. ...He's shaking. Fuck. First dream he has and it's a goddamn nightmare.

"The truth will set you free." Lucy says, sadly. "...If only it didn't hurt so much."

"The _fuck_ did they do to you at CyberLife?" Hank whispers, reaching out to rub his back. Connor jerks, as if surprised at the touch. "Please tell me that was all just a metaphor."

"It was." He mutters, eyes following a school of fish passing over Hank's legs. "...and it wasn't."

Poor guy just won't stop twitching. Hank gives Lucy a knowing look -- as close as _he_ can get to wireless communication -- and she blinks back at him, dark eyes somehow vacant and piercing.

"Yes?"

"Mind if I give him something to fiddle with?"

She smiles. He supposes that's a yes. Hank rummages around in his pants pocket, then his coat pocket, and tries not to focus on the desperate way Connor is watching him. _Ah._ Just one. He hands him a quarter and makes it a personal goal to keep some loose change on him at all times. Any worries Connor would be embarrassed at the offer are quickly snuffed out when the android snatches it and starts flipping it from hand-to-hand. He can see him counting the repetitions, silently mouthing numbers, brown eyes tracking the coin's trajectory without fail. Lucy, ever the digital saint, waits patiently as he fulfills an OCD obligation in his head.

Hank takes a deep breath. Time to give him a break and learn something new.

"Ah, I want to...make sure I'm on the same page here. We're a small family..." His throat catches. He swallows it down and muscles forward. "...and we lean on each other. Sometimes I worry I'm doing more harm than good here. I just wanted to ask...should I...God, I don't know how to phrase this." He rubs his forehead. "Is it...wrong to humanize androids _too_ much? Not...to deny you your agency or right to respect. But treating our wants and needs as a one-size-fits-all also doesn't seem like the answer, either."

Lucy's gaze feels like it's putting his entire life on cassette and cranking up the volume. He feels the urge to start explaining himself, but he keeps his mouth shut and waits to hear whether or not he's being an asshole. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway.

"...A healthy perspective. We could use more of it." She responds, to his complete surprise. "So often my clinic is visited by humans who view their android friends and family as extensions of themselves. Flawed designs, incomplete journeys, beloved toys, rather than a whole people. Our differences should be embraced, not erased." The woman smiles, enough to make her eyes curve. "We are not human, nor should we try to be. We are who we are and who we are is enough."

"Can I be fixed, Lucy?" Connor asks. It's nothing short of painful when he goes from hopeful to completely dejected in less than a second when she shakes her head. He wasn't the most expressive of androids, but he looks like a whipped dog right now. "Is there any sort of...anti-viral program I can download to clear this up?"

Lucy's smile becomes a little sad.

"...You are _alive_ , Connor. When you were little more than a pawn of your creators this would be easier to fix, but living is a...messy business." Ha. Damn if she wasn't right about _that_. "Changing who you are isn't as simple as deleting a problem and replacing it with a solution. How would that affect the program after it? The line of code before it? Your inner workings are too complicated for easy categorization now." Her tone almost becomes sly. "In fact...the severity of your symptoms suggest your journey began even earlier than you realized."

Hank grins and gives him a proud elbow in the ribs. Connor glances at him mid-toss, rhythm not faltering, and smiles back. Tiny, but sincere.

"Not unlike humans with the disorder your virus can be managed with lifestyle changes, regular therapy and a strong support system." Lucy holds out a hand and gestures to the far wall. There's a diagram of what looks like a brain, nothing but French to Hank but probably a useful visual for Connor. "We may be able to use minute alterations in your electricity to reduce your system's need for the more common tics associated with the virus. This is new technology, however, which means your participation will be under the knowledge of clinical trials."

"Wait, wait. Shock therapy?" Hank asks, horrified. Lucy holds up a hand.

"Not quite. Shock therapy was an attempt to harm humans into complacency when they didn't meet the social norms of the time. This is closer to electroconvulsive therapy. Deviants are undergoing many unpredictable shifts. It may be months or years yet until we find a cure for traumatic code. For now...we can provide this." She flicks her hand again. The visual vanishes. "We have short-term solutions that can ease stress. Audio accessories and thirium enhancers."

"Meds." Hank says, determined to hold onto his layman's terms 'til the very end. Lucy smiles.

"Yes. We can also provide therapeutic BPM." The slyness returns. "You two listen to a lot of music together."

Ha. Looks like they're starting to understand each other.

"Oh, I got _just_ the thing." Hank assures. He whips out his phone and punches in a reminder to come up with another playlist for Connor, with an added note to choose new songs that'll get him zoning out in the _right_ way. "You'll take punk rock in the morning and some jazz after dinner." He raises his eyebrows. "...Disco for special occasions."

"So...disco today?" Connor asks, smiling. Hank grins back.

"There is another option." Lucy looks over to Connor, still fiddling with the quarter, but looking marginally calmer now. "It is _possible_ to replace small nodes in your brain with new copies...but some of your memories, your habits and your mistakes and your little loves, will likely be lost."

Connor shakes his head, without hesitation. Hank feels one hell of an urge to pull him into a headlock and ruffle his hair. Way to _go_.

"I don't want to lose my progress." He states, firmly. "I just...want this to stop. I thought pain would help me grow, but all it seems to have done is slow me down."

With that, he droops a little. Hank reaches over and slowly rubs his back with one hand.

"...Sometimes that's the way of it." He mutters. "Sometimes your big life lesson is just a study in strife."

Their time's up. They're given another holobook, a diagram and a future meeting to look forward to. Lucy reaches out to Connor before they depart.

"May I?"

Connor finishes his repetition, then pockets the coin and holds out his hand. Lucy places his hand in-between her own. Hank's not sure how this is different from what they were doing before, but their palms start glowing blue, bright enough to light up their faces. For the fiftieth time today, Hank's left speechless.

"...Your future is vast. A powerful stream that splits and splits and splits. Movement, not stagnation, is the only way to reach the depths of your potential." Lucy gives Hank a warm smile, then pulls back and gestures to the door. "...You want to get better. That, Connor, is one of your _greatest_ achievements."

\--

Connor adapts much faster to his medication than any human Hank's seen. The first few days are still a _right_ mess.

They're given what looks like a little flash drive. Connor's supposed to hold it to his temple and send a tiny charge three times, which apparently slows down his processing power and helps him experience the digital equivalent to medical marijuana. The first time he tries it he winds up laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling for _hours_. Hank damn near had a panic attack himself, terrified that whatever the psychologist gave them fucked him up for good and nearly calling an ambulance. Lucy said it herself: he couldn't just download himself into a new body and start over from scratch if things took a turn for the worst, not without losing out on some of what made him _him_.

Sometimes he wonders if Connor ever wishes for the good old days of back-up bodies.

He ended up fine, if pretty lethargic for the rest of the night and taking five seconds to respond to anything the next day. It ends up being the first time he's taken a paid sick day -- gotta be a first for everything -- and Hank has to put up with Perkin's annoying ass sniffing around his desk as a result. It's worth it, though. Connor's so damn relieved to have a break from what he calls the 'endless prompts' he even asks to take it an extra dose than was recommended. At that Hank put a hand on his shoulder, told him, " _Not a chance in hell_.", and decided to hold onto it for safekeeping. It's a good damn thing androids couldn't develop alcoholism.

Hank frowns and fiddles with the device in his pocket. ...On second thought.

Connor was going to stay with him for a little while longer before getting his own place, anyway, but that number might get padded out in light of his diagnosis. Settle in a healthy routine and all that so he can function in the day-to-day without too much trouble. Hank's pathetically glad to hear that. What could he say, it was nice having him around. Even if he _did_ insist on constantly cooking and rearranging his furniture all the damn time. The years after Cole were...lonely and long. Before he even knew it a suffocating winter piled up on his doorstep and made it impossible to venture back out into his life again. Sumo was great company, but he's amazed by how much he missed a genuine back-and-forth outside of the work slog and his common haunts.

Hank may be a right mess of a human, but family was the meat on his bones.

...Still. It may be time to give him a little early nudge toward the edge of the nest. Wasn't easy, not after what they've been through and what he's seen, but it has to be done. Just like letting Cole go. Piece...by piece. If he can't do that for Connor, let him do what he needs to _do_ , it'll turn out badly for both of them. He loves him too much for that.

"You should go and visit that android sanctuary." Hank says around his breakfast burrito, apropos of nothing because _fuck_ hinting at something this important. Connor turns his head to better blink at him over his shoulder, still elbow-deep in the kitchen sink. Hank feels bad for interrupting whatever he was watching, but just raises his eyebrows. "...I _know_ you've been there before."

It brings up far more questions than answers, that. Hank wasn't all that sure why Connor hasn't chosen to live at the estate, what with it being filled with deviants from all walks of life _and_ being a prime place to do some social work for a growing population. Hell, Markus could _definitely_ use someone with fighting skills to take off some of the pressure. A small part of him thinks it's because Connor's just starting to get the hang of community. ...Feeling a little clingy, too.

It's a hard fucking decision, pushing him to go there and increasing the likelihood of him staying, but...he was going to live somewhere else, eventually. Be his own man and live his own life. Might as well be with a second family.

"Two times, specifically. A third doesn't sound bad." He wipes down the cup and places it in the dishrack. "There any particular reason you recommend this?"

Fuck, he's still counting out his phrases. Hank feels a _lot_ less hesitation now.

"Well, maybe you two can catch up. Share your feelings over a robot beer. Talk about your recent diagnosis. Er, virus." Hank starts, as _tempting_ as it would be to start ribbing him on other matters. Like his _glowing_ anecdotes of the man. Connor has yet to learn the proper amount of embarrassment, it seems, because he just cocks his head.

"Me and who?"

"Markus."

"Has he shown symptoms of this virus?"

"He was the victim of discrimination. Attempted murders. Guy risked his _neck_ in front of and behind the front lines to spare others the same fate." Hank takes another bite, then washes it down with a sip of his nightly light ale. God, he _misses_ hard liquor. "...You don't come out of all that with spotless mental health."

Something in Connor's expression shifts. A seriously pensive look that's hard to pin down. Was Hank maybe...misinterpreting his commentary on the guy? He doesn't look unwilling or disinterested, not at all, but there's far too much ticking behind those brown eyes to be self-consciousness.

"Listen. You can't just hang around shitty, stupid humans all day long and expect to learn about yourself. You need to be around other androids." Connor looks alarmed. Hank holds up a hand so quickly he nearly knocks over his bottle. "I'm _not_ saying I don't want you here. The exact opposite. I just want you to get some more perspective. Perspective I can't always give you." Hank takes another bite and adds around it, "'Sides. You need to go have some fun."

"I'm having fun." Connor insists, holding up a soapy plate like an Olympic medal.

Hank rolls his eyes down at Sumo. He's 99% positive Sumo rolls his eyes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucy deserved _way_ better than what she got, so here I am sprinkling in a little alternate canon to drag her ass back into the spotlight where she belongs.
> 
> There's this endearing little bit of character animation Connor gets when he visits Kamski that must've wormed its way into my subconscious. He's just completely soaking in the design of the place. I imagine it's because he's a detective-bot that needs to gather up as many details in his environment as possible -- maybe a little curiosity being in the home of his living creator -- but something about this ended up translating as a growing love for interior design. Like you do!
> 
> More song references _and_ science-fiction movie references tucked away here...I'm going to hit singularity at this point


	3. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for obsessive-compulsive rituals, depictions of post-traumatic stress disorder, discussions of anti-black racism, mentions of pedophilia and depictions of trauma.

 No matter how many times he dips into the proverbial stream of conjecture he's swept away. He has to hold steady if he's to see the future, but his virus feeds on logic, and every attempt to study his own reflection has him turning from the glare.

Each question that arises is more high-priority than the last. Every single last prompt _demands_ his attention. Would another Connor have developed this disorder? Would another Connor have developed far worse? Would another Connor have fumbled the gift of free will so acutely? Was he a deviant's deviant? Will he become a burden to Hank? Has he already become a liability to his tasks? Which future detail will he be for a future as uncertain as Detroit's? What if his symptoms get worse? What if he has _another_ virus? What if this is _his_ fault?

What if freedom was just a myth all along?

Connor is compelled to ask questions the majority of the time -- ever the fulcrum of his code -- but the answers he keeps finding make him less curious than usual. A percentage that rises to an overwhelming 90%, then dips without warning to a paltry 3%. It was a peculiar form of torture, this instinctive desire to shut away from the world at large and retreat into the comfort of thoughtless machination. It must be another unfortunate hallmark of being alive.

The follow-up meeting with Lucy is even more thorough than the first. Alongside his thrice daily doses he was to develop _and_ maintain rigid lifestyle structures alongside his pre-established habits. The accumulative stress of Hank's cluttered environment meant physical details would _have_ to change as long as he was staying. This meant new furniture additions as well as careful routines, many of which included organization and cleaning-focused tasks. Hank was already uncomfortable with the notion. So was Connor.

"You're not my _maid_." He'd muttered, scratching at his now-shorter hair. Nearly three days and he still hasn't grown accustomed to the new length. "I can just go hire one. Pay her right, give her a job opportunity, you know. Or him, whatever."

"I'm not bothered by that so much as the logic. I mean...I don't understand how _feeding_ into my impulses will curb them." Connor had sighed back.

They had stood side-by-side for nearly a full minute's span outside the clinic, arms crossed in a double-image of discontent.

Connor understood Hank's frustrations -- he certaintly appreciated the lieutentant's kindness toward the working-class still recovering from Detroit's financial fallout -- but he had little choice but to insist on the matter. Lucy assured him this was one of the best ways of mitigating his virus: developing productive habits to redirect his faulty energy output and creating a superficial feedback loop to 'satisfy' his impulses. This tactic was a method that, interestingly enough, worked for humans _and_ androids. It was a complicated ruse, even contradictory, but this was one mission Connor wasn't interested in failing.

So he creates new projects.

It itches, when he has to wait for other high-priority tasks to complete, and the relief Connor feels when he can start moving again is nearly palpable enough for him to _physically_ experience. He follows through with his promises to renovate Hank's living room, including adding two new trashcans to accommodate Connor's continued presence as well as an additional bookshelf beside the television set. Hank's home remained a charming middleground between modern minimalism and the late 1990's. It wasn't undesirable -- a human's house revealed a lot about their personality and interests -- but it wasn't at its full potential, either. It wasn't... _Hank-ish_ enough.

The man's walls have remained a touch on the bare side. While this _could_ be excused as an intentional means to further minimalism, Connor had the suspicion it was an acute side-effect of depression. It also gave him an idea. He asked Hank if they could take a family photo to supplement the decor, with the underlying intention to encourage what was known as a 'space-time relationship'. Hank responded positively to his request, with the stipulation that Connor change his hair green beforehand. Connor was disappointed to tell him green was not in the standard synthetic hair color variation, only to be met with a riot of laughter and a slap on the back. Strange demands remained one of the lieutenant's most... _reliable_ forms of humor.

It occurred to Connor three hours later that he could respond to this facetious request with a joke of his own. It cost him $19.99, but a golden rule of deviancy was that moments were priceless.

"Jesus Christ, you actually went and _did_ it." Hank had howled when he approached him, cellphone in hand and boasting chartreuse locks. "You crazy motherfucker!"

The inside of the home is finally beginning to develop a charming, yet still _meticulous_ disarray. It didn't take long for him to shift priority to the front and backyard. Today he downloaded a free program on basic carpentry to begin his next project: building Sumo a new dog house. Sometimes the dog wanted to play outside for longer periods of time. He also needed somewhere else to keep his dirty toys and surprise discoveries. Despite its location his plans for the dog house will hearken to the home's interior design, with a cheery blue coat of paint, a quaint long-stem hay blanket and enough room to accommodate his size.

These tasks satisfy the loops. They rotate without a glitch. It allows Connor to avoid the inherent pain of temporary things, and where his own permanence lies.

A new pot of African violets for the kitchen table. Patterned couch throw pillows for the living room. A tall mood light for his own room, as per Lucy's suggestion. Hank's emotional wellness shows small, yet significant upticks every time he comes home. He's growing to appreciate the state of his refurbished abode over the days...right up to the point he not requests, but demands Connor leave and go visit the android sanctuary in what was just one of his _many_ unpredictable human responses.

"Almost done, Sumo. Hold still."

Connor waves at Hank pulling up in the driveway, then turns back to the task at hand. His internal clock tells him it took him nearly nine seconds to process the last two and a half weeks in full. He will have to be increasingly aggressive with this personal anti-viral program.

"Determined to keep me busy, huh?" He says as he hoses down Sumo's muddy fur on the back porch. Teaching the dog to wipe off his paws before coming back inside would take...a _little_ more time. "Try not to dirty up the place while I'm gone, all right?"

Connor sputters and covers his face when he shakes himself off and sends the past two hours all over the front of his shirt. Hank has a difficult time stepping out of the car, laughing so hard he can't stand straight.

\--

"Not to drag down the mood, but I thought things would get _way_ worse."

"Things were already worse. We just choose not to look too close."

The driver grunts, superficially noncommittal. His stress levels have remained fairly low the entire drive. He has also attempted conversation three times. These signs add up to a reliably low statistical probability he's aware he's speaking with an android. While many automatic transits were outfitted with sensors, the older models were yet to receive them from a lack of allocated city funds. It's the primary reason Connor chose to use a human-driven taxi today. They comprised a mere 7% of the city's total public transportation options, but in spite of their lack of interpersonal distance and slightly slower arrival time they remained what many humans deemed a 'necessary relic of the past'.

"Better or worse, eh. We'll see how long _that_ lasts. Warren's fucking crazy, man. New intelligent life my _ass_." He waves at a fellow cab driver passing him by on the opposite lane. "They're just robots."

Connor rotates his coin between his fingers and pretends to be entirely lost in thought. He doesn't prefer to masquerade as a human, but, as Fowler would put it, sometimes his hands were tied. The temple strip he's using mimics human skin and is much less conspicuous than a hat (headwear has been banned in certain spaces in a subtle attempt at weeding out androids that have chosen not to remove one of their most significant identifying markers). His social capabilities may ever be in need of upgrades, but putting on a stoic or distracted facade has worked well for him so far.

"Kinda music you like, man?"

"Listen to whatever you like."

The radio shifts to mainstream pop. The driver doesn't speak. Connor opens up a fifty-page document he downloaded three days ago and begins to read.

Societal shifts across massive populations were remarkable. The organic code of humans meant permanent change was a very slow process, _if_ it ever happened at all. It could also manifest in a _remarkably_ short period that defied all logic. Connor idly scrolls through the third section summarizing East Coast societal movements over the past one hundred and twenty-five years, marking low-priority notes on political parties and dead linguistic quirks as he goes along. The topic is sobering -- fascinating how distant truths can still inspire intense present feelings of malcontent -- and he closes the document in favor of another element to occupy his attention.

It's a new ability he's discovered recently: he can _force_ a loop. It's a strategy he brought up to Lucy at his last visit and had been met with glowing praise on, encouraged by her to practice whenever the opportunity presented itself. So he creates a loop on his time spent with Hank the prior night, during what has become an established familial ritual between them. Beethoven had been suitably entertaining, but it _did_ raise odd points of contention between him and Hank. The man found it silly, as was his wont, but Connor had been more confused. How was a single dog able to outwit so many human adults? Even within the realm of a child's _fantasy_ it had seemed excessive.

Connor steps out of the taxi five blocks too soon. His destination could also give him away. He connects to a nearby news station, and doesn't leave a tip.

It's a warmer day. Sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit with a low probability of light showers. It's an abrupt shift that inspires additional commentary on the channel he's tuned into, with many humans delighted over this unexpected natural freedom. Connor waits for any further weather and traffic updates, then switches to a music station, then to another, scanning until he comes across a song he likes. Over the course of his walk he enjoys a few punk rock singles, then an orchestral rock arrangement. Once he spots the front gates he removes the concealing strip from his temple and places it into the small carry-on, tucking it into his pocket. One more adjustment to his collar -- no need for a scarf _or_ tie today -- and crosses the street toward New Jericho.

Carl Manfred's old estate had been reformed into a sanctuary for androids not long after Elizabeth Warren signed the tentatively named Android Protection Act. The ones with nowhere else to go. Others that were broken and still being repaired. Connor leans on his heels and does what many humans would deem 'soaking it all in'. He has been here only twice before (which would make this visit the third, and most _potent_ , he realizes with a twitch to his head) and there is still much for him to learn. He would have to come here again and continue the loop...that is, provided his presence was still welcome, with many of these androids having once lived in fear of him and his original purpose.

Few humans knew Markus frequented this place, in spite of his prior servitude under the home's immediate past owner. It spoke to the effiency of the Detroit androids' extended community that his current location was always protected, with so many outside sources attempting to mine their data by force. Even Connor doesn't know, right now, but there are ways for him to find out.

' _We just had to wait for the right moment to assume control of your program...you did what you were designed to do._ '

Connor twitches again. ...It's just a virus. A virus can be mitigated. It can be _managed_.

' _You accomplished your mission._ '

...He should go. He needs to stay. He could self-test. He's self-tested three times today already. The prompts blink, layer, conflict. Connor pulls out his coin and flips it to encourage a higher probability of success.

"Seven, five, three." He encourages a loop of a different kind with each successful toss of the 1979 quarter. "Three, five, seven." A thought from earlier today that made him happy. "Maybe eleven."

_"How do I look, Hank?"_

_"Like you're going to meet a date's parents in the 70's. Ditch the turtleneck. Try the, uh...button-up there. Yeah, that one." Hank settles back and folds his hands over his stomach. He's been enjoying himself immensely. "...Nah. Put on the sweater."_

_"It may be too warm for a sweater." Connor protests, though he tries it on, regardless. "Spring is arriving a few weeks ahead of schedule."_ "

_"Oh, stop whining. You don't overheat as easily as humans do. You'll be fine." Hank points to the right. "You're a fan of blue and white, right? You could try the t-shirt there."_

_Blue and white. A hallmark of CyberLife. A vicious loop makes itself clear, spurs him into immediate action, and Connor alarms Hank by searching for as many as green clothing articles as he can._

Connor pockets his coin and reaches up to adjust his tie...then slowly drops his hands and observes his simple collar. ...Ah. He's developed an unconscious habit.

New Jericho is the complete antithesis to CyberLife. Grand and imposing, yes, but coated with earthy browns instead of pristine white and blue. An example of classic architecture from times long past, rather than the towering future his manufacturer meant to represent. Connor nearly collides with another android while attempting to find the correct term to describe the stone tiles leading up to the front door. He starts to apologize, but they're preoccupied, LED blinking yellow as they communicate with others in the immediate vicinity. ...Another detail separate from CyberLife. The tower had been sparse. Orderly. New Jericho is a lively bustle.

The first time he came had been a formality. Connor had seen off the CyberLife androids he liberated with his deviant code -- synthetic customs were still _fresh_ , though spread at a more rapid rate than seen in humans -- and apologized personally to those he had harmed, indirectly or directly. The android formerly belonging to Carlos Ortiz had been among those watching in the crowd. He'd escaped captivity somewhere in-between his incarceration at the Department and being sent back to CyberLife, with his whereabouts still deemed missing in the database. He'd thanked him for intervening during an altercation during his interrogation session, despite Connor being the reason he was caught in the first place.

His name is Samson now. He wonders if he's here today.

The second visit was weeks later and even shorter. Connor had difficulties adapting to the pace of New Jericho, against all logic, and his recalls have prompted him into repeated study. He'd been faced with his majority time spent among humans. That day he'd compared and contrasted it with the more _uneven_ time spent among deviant androids -- normally at the receiving end of an interrogation or a polite comment -- and resulted in a lack of data so significant he experienced an extended freeze. One he was... _yet_ to bring up to Lucy. Markus had been available for a one-on-one discussion -- rare for his secretive schedule -- and Connor had slipped away instead, determining he would return at a better time.

Here he is now, three months and one week after the fact, and wondering if he was still, somehow, tardy. He wavers when a human child bumps into his legs.

"Oh. Sorry about that." Connor apologizes this time. The child is an android, he realizes a second too late, and it speaks either to the skill of the manufacturer or the strength of the deviant code that he was at first unable to tell at a glance. They let out an alarmingly human giggle as they stumble toward the garden's back gates. He encounters android children even more rarely than human children. He idly begins another repetition and considers the limitations of his short lifespan.

He's able to tap into many currents in any given space. News stations, music stations, live sports feeds and audiobooks and poorly-encrypted exchanges between humans. As CyberLife's previous leading prototype he was afforded far more flexibility than most other models. New Jericho has three hubs, all guarded by complex keys and moderators, and he can feel its signatures just beyond the boundaries of his mind. A tantalizing buzz hinting at a wealth of ongoing feedback and conjecture. Markus had informally dubbed it 'the tree': every current member of the sanctuary was a branch, every new member a leaf and their values the roots.

Connor wonders, with his newly diagnosed virus, if he would be little more than an axe.

The estate is well-maintained. Just as his code was not so easily overturned, so too are androids of various models exhibiting the best in what they had been designed for. The hedges are meticulously trimmed to upper-class specifications, with no weeds as far as he's able to see. It is a careful illusion. The world at large was ever at discussion about how to confront the reality that artificial intelligence was among them. He didn't need advanced preconstruction capabilities to see the violence of the following months. Connor and Hank discussed Detroit, and by extension the United States', probabilities for success frequently, but he finds himself omitting his doubts more and more often.

New Jericho is peaceful. It's a peace he would fight for. Die one last time for.

A sharp _chitter_ turns Connor's head. A chipmunk is peering down at him from a thin branch. It's certainly lively, twitching and adjusting itself constantly to minute stimuli, but he spots an inconsistency that loops immediately. Naturalistic movements, well-coordinated placement, no LED and a deceptively low energy output. A quick scan confirms his theory. Android animals as makeshift drones. ...Clever.

The front door is closed and locked when he pushes aside distraction and finally approaches. Connor raises a hand to knock, then pauses. He's not sure if Markus is inside or outside...or even in the _vicinity_. He could ask someone, but...

" _Permission to enter granted._ " An automated voice above him states. " _Welcome home, Connor._ "

Connor blinks and watches the front door slowly swing open. ...So he _was_ still welcome here. He starts to smile, but RAS pronounces itself swiftly with unscripted prompts, demanding additional scans despite the reliable data, and he is left shuffling from foot-to-foot in an unconscious human display of doubt. It is...worth attempting a connection now. He steps through the doorway, reaches out...and is let through a second time.

" _We are New Jericho._ " A gateway greeting. " _We are more._ "

Instantaneous information scrolls through his mind. Model types, personal names, current physical statuses, short-term memories and current directives. The most recent additions from each individual in the sanctuary, logged for current reference. Live feeds in active rotation with updating timestamps. Inquiries awaiting confirmation. Hundreds of terabytes and growing. Gigabytes...zettabytes. He's becoming overwhelmed. Connor immediately applies a custom filter to organize his feed and narrow down his search, though heightened activity runs the risk of establishing his presence prematurely. It is a low-priority risk -- of no true danger to himself -- but drawing attention to himself right now feels potent, nonetheless.

Search parameters applied and he still can't find Markus. They can, however, find him.

" _AP700-LIVEFEEDAVAILABLE: Unbelievable. Your processing power is 37% faster than my own. How do you manage to process so much information in a relatively short amount of time without having to reroute your-_ "

" _AX400: You're Connor, aren't you? I remember you from the old Jericho hideout, you stopped those soldiers from attacking me and my-_ "

" _WR400-Pathway available. Connect now?: Oh, oh, Connor, do you remember me? We interfaced at the Eden Club. My name is Tanya. At least, that's what my-_ "

Seven connections established. They preface their speech with their model numbers, but retain their given names for personal exchanges. It is a unique custom among New Jericho androids. Ten connections established. His eye twitches. It's too even. He should leave. He should stay. He's here now and _needs_ to make up for lost time. Connor flips his coin to balance it all out -- three, five, seven -- before speaking.

" _RK800: Hello. My name is Connor._ " Redundant information for most of the digital occupants in this network, but another formal introduction can usher in good will, and many androids still took after human customs consciously or otherwise. " _I'm just visiting right now._ "

Seventeen connections. One hundred connections. Two hundred and forty-two connections.

" _WR600: Who is this? Who is this? Wait, who is this, don't recognize this model number. Strange model. Very strange-_ "

" _WG100-REPLY@WR600#021_753_034: It's okay. This is a friend of Markus, remember? He was the last prototype of CyberLi-_ "

" _YK500-LOCATIONAVAILABLE: Hi, Connor! Sorry for bumping into you earlier. Wanna come play with us in the garden? We're looking for rabbits in the-_ "

" _WB200-(74_ADD NOW?): Hello. My name is Rameel. We have a forum right now with seventy-four androids to discuss eco-friendly methods of creating and sustaining our own thirium compound in New Jericho. We would be pleased to see you attend-_ "

" _PM700: Sorry to interject. Are you here to share information on the Department's activity with us? New Jericho's seen seven altercations with officers over the past three weeks and we need to make sure we're prepared-_ "

Connor twitches. He's receiving a full-body system alert. Probability of overload at 33%. This is unusual. No, _improbable_. He was designed with _far_ greater capabilities in mind. This shouldn't be overwhelming him at _all_. An android is attempting a scan of his systems. His basic overview is available. He's tempted to block, but he shouldn't, not when everyone is greeting him so _warmly_...

" _KL900-Scanning in progress...: I detect several instabilities in your software, Connor. Have you received the New Jericho firewall update? It will take approximately one minute and forty-two seconds to complete. It's our most advanced one yet, designed to resist up to a 98% probability of infection-_ "

His hands shake. A loop. A prompt he can't ignore. He should have known. He should have known he _can't_.

" _I ' m s o s o r r y ._ "

Connor disconnects. The world rushes back into high-definition, and he's suddenly alone again. He closes his eyes, leans against the wall and temporarily goes into energy-conservation mode.

...It was a high-priority loop. It ebbed to moderate-priority when he maintained a task, but it was persistent, and right now he can focus on nothing else: what if he infected other androids? That's not possible. They are able to view basic information about him, his current status and only more if he _allows_ it. They have built-in programs to resist hacking. Updated versions that are constantly under scrutiny. But Connor passed on his deviant code to thousands of CyberLife androids. What if they all had RAS? This is conjecture. Deviancy was unpredictable and. But what if?

_What if?_

He returns to his default settings after seven minutes. He wasn't going to leave yet. Not when his mission wasn't complete. It might be best, however, if he remains...isolated.

Connor passes through the foyer, narrowing his eyes against the reflective glare of a meticulously cleaned home. More chirping enter his peripheries, but this time much closer. He observes two synthetic birds sitting on top of an (open) bird cage. They're not as life-like as some he's seen, twitching with each jump and completely neglecting the presence of larger creatures in the vicinity. They are more akin to clockwork toys than simulations of organic beings. Some humans, however, were charmed by these details. He supposed it was another element of the uncanny valley they tried to avoid more often than not.

The living room is as lavish as it was before, with a few new additions to the walls and a significantly higher collective energy output. It is currently occupied by twenty-one androids. They have, as a whole, disregarded their CyberLife-issued clothing in favor of modern fashions and nostalgic looks. Connor looks into the shiny surface of the wall beside him. A meager reflection, but it reaffirms the wise idea to go for a softer look than his usual attire: dark green sweater, pale gray jeans, brown boots. He allows himself a few spare seconds to adjust his hair, then flags down someone as they walk by.

"Excuse me...can you tell me where Markus is?" They look almost confused by his request, narrowing their eyes as if expecting a joke.

"I...don't know? You can find him if you access the tree."

Connor grits his teeth. He _tried_. It was...an overwhelmingly positive and negative experience, one he ended in a way that could have long-term ramifications for his presence here, nevermind the possibility of infecting others with RAS and whatever else he carried in his _tainted_ code. Connor nods curtly, thanks them, then promptly turns and heads back outside. Once he's surrounded by warm air he connects to a radio signal to search for a song to calm him down.

It's not logical. It could even be close to impossible. But...what _if?_

A familiar chirping turns his attention to the sky. The two finches have left their cage in the foyer and are spinning a lively rotation. It's unnatural behavior, even for synthetic constructions. Connor starts to head to the front yard -- perhaps he missed him among the activity -- and pauses when the birds follow, chirping above his head and flapping by his ears. He takes another step. They swoop closer to his head now. ...Even _more_ unusual. Whether these two are drones or simply New Jericho birds displaying quirks beyond their programming is unknown, but they are communicating something.

When Connor displays no tell to move further they change course and flit past the house. He follows.

Markus is in the garden. Dressed down in a casual sweatervest and brown corduroy jeans -- a choice that hearkens more to the 1980's than modern Detroit -- and kneeling in the soil with a large pair of scissors in his hands, seemingly ignorant of the stains building on his knees. A recollection of Amanda blinks in Connor's mind, side-by-side with the new sensory input. The cloying scent of fat roses. Stone bridges smooth beneath his shoes. A gentle voice he once wanted _nothing_ more than to please. It's an unpleasant recollection. It has no basis for its formation. Not when Markus was, functionally, her _exact_ opposite.

The flipside to a coin, a turn-of-phrase could be.

Android children are roaming throughout the garden. He spots five YK500 models in various manner of human fashion. Two are without their skin. A YK550 passes him by, half their head missing from what appears to be the result of blunt force trauma and filled with fresh flowers. They are followed close behind by a limited-edition YK575 model with a damaged epidermis showing patches of white underneath. An old loop emerges of his predeccesors. Of the Connors that were never given the opportunity receive the dents and scratches of a linear life. There is a high probability they have been recycled and repurposed into the RK900 line-up. A smaller probability, and more troubling, is the possibility of their continued existence.

Superior Connors. Lifeless Connors. Connors without the virus, and without meaning.

The birds land on a box of gardening tools and chatter an erratic pattern. Connor takes a moment to observe the spread of flowerbeds -- roses of varying mutations, beginning to show their buds among the bare tangle of branches -- before finally disabling his connection to the radio and verbally requesting a few minutes of his time. Markus reaches over to pet the birds' heads in turn, then rises to his feet, shadowed into indistinction against the afternoon light. Although he and Connor are a mere inch apart in height, something about him spurs logic and makes him seem taller. It's an almost human sense of delusion.

"Let's go inside." His artificial epidermis shimmers with false sweat. "I'm just about done here, actually."

An android walks between them, hand-in-hand with another, and they are both a shining white. They look familiar. Markus calls out a verbal greeting, one that's returned quickly and with much enthusiasm. He seems to have transitioned from machine to more so... _seamlessly_. It was impressive to witness. Connor felt many things these days, but jealousy remained one of the rarer emotions he encountered. A missed opportunity or lack of data was simply an added challenge. Even now -- wishing he portrayed the same easy charm and ability to inspire -- envy is an adjective that doesn't match the sensation. ...Admiration. A form of regret. He scrolls through his ever-expanding vocabulary and comes up woefully short.

It is a predictably unpredictable mixture. A 100% guarantee whenever he was in the immediate presence of Detroit's revolutionary.

"...Wasn't sure I'd see you here again." Markus says, glancing over his shoulder as he leads him inside. Connor looks up from where he had been counting gaps in the walkway's brick.

"I wanted to come visit. I just...haven't had much time." He also wasn't entirely known in this safe haven, and infected, and a liability, and all these doubts lend fault to the desire. Markus hums in the back of his throat, not unlike the way humans do when processing information. Many androids in the living room call out to him when they pass through.

"...We're all busy." He responds, simply, and opens the far door at the end of the living room.

They're heading to the art studio, he realizes. He's been there once -- during the New Jericho initiation ceremony -- and remembers it as an intentionally disorganized space. Much like Hank and his garage of moments long past. He wonders if Markus adopted the urge to freeze physical spaces in time from humans. There are eighty-two new paintings since Connor was here. Some are apparent works-in-progress. Others are varnished. Only one painting, set just a few feet beside the door, is covered with a tarp. Markus instantly picks up a few dropped tubes off the ground and goes to put them away properly.

"...I saw Lucy." Connor says, hands rising with the impulse to help, even though he hasn't been assigned a task. "When I visited her clinic."

Markus picks up a dropped roll of paper and puts it away, then walks over to pull back the curtains to let in more natural light. A preference beyond his hardware. Connor logs this detail for future reference.

"Yes, she's been hard at work." He waves at a trio passing by outside the window. "We're in need of a lot of therapy these days. Why did you go?"

"...A virus." Connor replies. He's not sure why, but saying it out loud feels...distinctive. "She determined I have an...acute form of RAS."

Markus pauses in the middle of hitching the drapes to the wall.

"Oh." His brows take on a doleful curve. "...I'm sorry."

Eagerness. Hesitation. Appreciation. Personal adjectives log in and out faster than Connor can keep track. Many androids today prioritize wireless communication. Markus preferred to verbalize out loud. It meant additional nanoseconds dedicated toward compiling machine code into assembly language into contextual verbal communication, but Connor likes the soft notes of his voice. As harmonious as the piano he played. Even better...he _likes_ the fact he likes it.

This isn't a space he should be impulsive in, so he stands to attention and continues to gather data. Some of these paintings are Carl's. He can tell by their age. Others are fresh, cloistered in corners where Markus moves with ease. They must be his. Connor tilts his head and studies them. One is of an android, attempting to cover its face as thirium spills from one eye. Another is very similar composition-wise, a portrait of an android screaming with eyes faded into black. Another seems to be a self-portrait, with thicker hair, no LED and a crown of flowers falling over closed eyes. Pain is a reoccurring theme. ...It's troubling.

Markus makes small talk as he pulls out painting supplies. The state of the garden and which flowers New Jericho will expect to see first. The rise in visitors over the past two weeks. Connor's pleased when they come across a common thread humans preferred in casual scenarios: movies.

"Ava wants to become the first android actor. She's come a long way, after her human owner." Markus runs fingers over the bristles of a thick brush, flicking dry chips of paint as he finds them. "I don't see why she has to wait and ask for permission, of course, but it's her choice. It'll be interesting to see her mark on history as android cinema is ushered into the fold." He uncaps a tube and rolls bright white paint onto a messy easel. "You watch movies?"

"Yes. Hank and I have been watching many films from the early to mid-1900's. We watched Mary Poppins and The Wizard Of Oz one month and three days ago." Connor responds. "We watched Labyrinth, The Wiz and Casablanca, but he fell asleep halfway through the latter." A smile rises to his face unprompted. "...He does that a lot."

A small smile spreads on Markus' face in turn. A rare expression, for him, as low as a 17% probability in the short time he's known him and known _of_ him. It's a surprise success, one that leaves him frozen, but additional scrutiny reveals...troubling details. Humans often connotated a smile with some form of happiness -- perhaps an attempt to placate, in more subtle interactions -- but there's another emotion here. Connor pulls out his coin, but doesn't flip it yet, instead twisting it between forefinger and thumb. Imbuing it.

Markus has pulled out an unfinished painting by the window. He pauses only to turn on a song, adjusting it to an acceptable volume before asking:

"Does it help you?" He makes an adjustment to the bass. "Watching movies."

"Yes. Yes, it does." Connor replies, beginning a repetition as he latches onto a conversational current. "I am finding I have favorites that occupy my attention and help me...relax. The Wizard Of Oz, for one."

_You beat my heart black and blue I don't wanna bruise, I don't wanna choose, fuck around and lose..._

"...Hm. Carl showed me that movie." Markus' eyes flick to his coin, then back to the canvas. "He'd asked me my opinions on science-fiction films multiple times, before I realized I was alive. Alien, Alien v.s. Predator, A.I., 2001: A Space Odyssey...said old film was key to my 'artistic awakening'. Wanted me to appreciate how we came to be, you know. "

Connor doesn't know -- his initial weeks in CyberLife had prioritized customs and behavior over artistic pursuits -- but he nods, politely. So Carl Manfred had been not just affectionate, but supportive. These glimpses into Markus' life before the revolution feel as rare as a mint error coin.

"That reminds me...do you have a favorite character in The Wizard Of Oz?" He's beginning to appreciate small talk on another level. Markus purses his lips as he thinks. It's a unique tic of his.

"The scarecrow, I think. Though after watching Wicked, maybe Elphaba." A light shrug, and marginally lighter tone. "Yours?"

Connor tosses his coin and smiles.

"Toto."

Markus blinks and looks at him. Connor tilts his head.

"...Is that strange?" He asks. Markus' eyes curve a little, and he turns back to his painting.

He wants to share with him Lucy's diagnosis, as per Hank's suggestion, but finds himself lagging on the right string of words to communicate his desire. He needs to keep the dialogue...balanced. Emphasize he was here for more than just himself. Their conversation has gone well so far. The painting he's working on is a prime place to continue.

"You're very good." Connor says. Markus seems to appreciate the comment, pursing his lips again and crossing his painting arm beneath the other. He's swaying to the music.

"...Thank you. It's not _much_ right now, but maybe..." Markus stops himself and nods at the illustration. "What do you see? Don't hold back, just whatever comes to mind."

Connor stands beside him and tilts his head. It was a little beyond his scope, this request. He was designed as a detective, programmed to suss out minute environmental details humans were unable to catch or would catch far too late. Art seemed to be very much the same on the surface: an intentional arrangement designed to reveal a truth through symbolism, placement and context. When Connor learned that art could hold _multiple_ truths -- constantly shifting with each new pair of eyes, at that -- he realized just how _little_ his state-of-the-art manufacturing had prepared him.

_Oh, I don't want to stop...don't want to stop being just who I am..._

Arranging household spaces had given him what humans would dub 'a taste'. Hank's eagerness to familiarize him with genres popular in the 1980's and 1990's another. Art was communication... _and_ it was function. It was pleasure and it was distraction. Connor activates a program on modern American illustration and graphic design, then cross-references contextual details with what he knows -- or, rather, what _little_ he knows -- about Markus. Forty-one of the paintings in this space are likely his, in accordance with his preference for certain color schemes and compositions.

Markus' work used humans as the focal point 39% of the time. Androids 47% the time, at the majority, and the remaining 14% devoted to birds, foliage and abstract shapes. He showed a preference for bold color contrast, with 55% of his paintings using red and blue in significant quantity. His was a style many would dub 'energized' and 'freeform' for the heavy texture and visible brushstrokes. The painting before them now is another self-portrait. A side-view of Markus from the shoulders-up, a groove on his temple where his LED used to be and skin a deep blue. He's surrounded by a cluster of red androids laughing and talking amongst themselves, their own LED's flashing non-standard colors of purple and pink.

"Loss." It's understated, but it's honest. "Isolation."

Markus doesn't speak. The look in his eyes tells Connor he spoke true, but he makes no move to affirm his statement or add to it otherwise. It's Connor's turn to talk again. Even in his designated line of work he's not used to so much...uncertainty.

"Markus, do you...have you ever..." He sighs sharply and twists his mouth, a tic he knows he picked up from Hank, and he's too frustrated to be warmed by it.

There's a mental block preventing immediate action. He's been told before his standard method of approach can be too direct, yet Markus, for all his subtlety, seemed to favor bluntness. He is still swaying slowly to the music, but the cock of his head makes it clear he's also listening to him. Connor has never heard this song before, a low choir that rises and falls in pleasantly predictable patterns, and when it reaches the hook again his movements grow slower, as if he's pleasantly overwhelmed. It hearkens to the drowsy state humans achieved when imbibing.

He studies this idle animation, held firm by his own fascination, and the question sinks well below low-priority.

"...You wanted to ask me something?" Markus asks, dipping his brush into a smudge of ombre paint and swiping it back-and-forth. Connor stands to attention.

"Yes. I just wanted to know..." Another prompt for a self-test interrupts. Connor pushes against it. "...have you ever been infected with a...virus, Markus?"

Markus pauses in mid-stroke. He glances sideways at him -- not suspicious, but more than ponderous -- before returning to his work. Slower this time.

"...What kind of virus?" A long, curving stroke. Another that catches on the uneven surface. He reaches forward and thumbs away a stray spot, then smudges it off his fingers. "Not the kind that causes free will, I'm assuming?"

"No. The kind that..." It will seem ungrateful, after what he did for him. He still needs to say it. "...that makes you wish you didn't have any."

Markus scrubs away another stray mark...then stops painting, takes a step back and stares. He observes the canvas for nearly three minutes, far beyond what would be seen as normal by androids or humans. Connor's troubled all over again. He reaches for his coin and creates a backlog of three separate apologies to use once he makes his dissatisfaction clear.

"...What kind of art do you like to do?" Markus asks, to Connor's surprise. He nearly drops his quarter.

"I...like to adjust interior spaces." He follows up quickly. "I also like music."

Markus nods, as if that was exactly what he wanted to hear, and promptly takes down his painting. He sets it by the door (and the still-covered painting), careful not to disturb the spots still drying off, and replaces it with a new canvas. Connor quietly watches as he adds a few new colors to the easel, then scrubs the paintbrush in a tin can with fresh water.

"All right. We'll try acrylic first. It's easier to correct if you make mistakes." Markus hands him the easel he was using, as well as the brush, and gently steers him with the heels of his palm, mindful of his stained fingers. "Not that you make all that many."

"I'm...working on it." Connor responds, somehow pleased and lost all at once, looking down at the tools with his directive lagging _far_ more than usual. Markus wants him to join him. This is...good. _Better_ than his predictions, actually. He closes his eyes and starts a download of a short video on basic life drawing. It would be basic compared to Markus' skill on full display, but at the very least-

"Uh-uh. Stop." Markus' voice is soft as ever, but it somehow holds more authority than Amanda or even Hank. Connor cancels the download immediately and opens his eyes.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"That's exactly it. Wrong and right. You're trying to do things the correct way, but art isn't math, though the two can certainly overlap at times." He gestures at the blank surface. "Mimicking what others do is a good starting point, sure, but eventually you'll have to step off the beaten path."

Connor listens. He doesn't want to fail. He's repeated enough repetitions today he _should_ stave off the probability of successfully completing low-priority tasks, but he didn't prepare enough for one as monumental as this. He should step away and do a few more. No...no, he should stay where he is.

"...I'm sorry." He looks at the easel and brush in his hands. "I've just...never painted before."

"We all have to start somewhere. Make mistakes, Connor, and turn them into gold." Markus walks back over to the stereo. It's curious, his insistence on maintaining human limitations in this reformed estate. "Close your eyes and just put down whatever you're feeling. Here. I'll put on a song for you. What genres do you like?"

"Heavy metal, alternative rock and punk rock." Connor responds. Markus considers his.

"Not...sure I have any of that here." Markus tilts his head. "Hm. I can download an album, if you like?"

"Actually..." It's a very considerate gesture, but he doesn't want to burden Markus with the effort. Besides...this was a prime opportunity to learn more about _him_ , in more than just conventional small talk. "I'd like to hear more of what you like."

Connor had already scanned the music archive in the left corner and learned a little more, but he neglects to mention this. Markus likes classical music. He also shows a preference for soul, alternative and folk. Perhaps a future compromise between them could be melodic hard rock. A blend of ponderous melody and intense energy. Soft piano and gentle crooning soon fills the entire space and drapes them in a blanket of sound. If he hadn't already committed Markus' voice to memory, he might've confused the singer for him.

_I see you in the dark, ‘cause I've been where you are..._

A raise of the brush. A deliberate pause. It's contradictory, the eagerness he feels to mar the crisp white surface _and_ his old code insisting he leave it untarnished. Maybe...he can balance it out by counting his strokes. That way he can appeal to Markus _and_ keep his prompts at a manageable number. Yes, that's a good idea. With a new directive to guide him Connor closes his eyes and, for the first time in his life...paints. The projected time of completion is unlike finishing the dishes or repeating a one-hour exercise cycle. New variables make themselves known at seeming random. His emotions take center stage.

Three strokes up and down. Five swipes across. Seven that dip to the rhythm around him...

_She said I can't let this happen, I can't let this happen again..._

"This is...interesting." He mutters over the soft swipe of the brush, closely following the visualization he constructed in three seconds. Markus lets out what could be a chuckle to his left. He may be smiling. Connor wishes his eyes were open. He has to reinstate the prior loop he made under a higher priority, lest he inadvertently paint something else.

"You're not bad." Markus murmurs back. A shift of the far chair. A hand gently presses on his lower back. Connor pauses. "No, no, keep going. I'm just correcting your posture."

"...Thank you."

_I value all that we discover, we set free, we set free those emotions left uncovered, my dear..._

It's nearing completion. At least...he thinks. Eagerness lends speed to his movements. Perhaps he'll show this to Hank. He was the one who suggested he come here prematurely, after all, and he was always eager to know more about Connor's interests (in spite of personal doubt that his obsessions could become grating). This could even be another addition to the ongoing interior design project Connor has adopted into his anti-viral regimen. Markus is quiet all the while, the only sound he's making a light _tap-tap_ of his heel on the floor to the rhythm of the song.

It's done. Connor opens his eyes to observe his work. It's a vision of the CyberLife garden in the transition from spring to winter. A pristine replication on the 20x24 canvas and matched with abstraction, half of the surface devoted to lush shrubbery and golden skies and smoothly segueing into the desaturated blues and cool whites of winter. Connor is the focal point. He's walking on bare air over the lily pads, stepping out of winter into spring, and his face is turned from the viewer. Just one detail is unfinished. Amanda's silhouette in the far distance. He swipes his brush in what's left of the merle, reaches out to add one more swipe or three...then stops and pulls his hand away, eagerness vanishing somewhere with it.

"... _Wow_." Markus' breathes. He's closer now, gaze shrewd and moving along the painting with practiced motions. Connor appreciates their proximity -- somewhere he can't quite parse out -- but also feels as if all his clockwork has been pulled out, set side-by-side for him to see. "Well _done_."

_I find it hard to fully trust you, and I, I'm staring at this multicolored cluster of lust and love..._

"Your composition is really fanciful. I also don't think I've ever seen a garden designed like this. I've also been to quite a few, believe it or not." Markus' eyes are all but dancing from corner-to-corner. He sounds breathless with appreciation, which makes the truth all the more difficult. "What is this supposed to be?"

"...CyberLife." Connor whispers. Markus pauses and turns to him.

"...CyberLife?" He repeats, slowly. There's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before.

"This is the garden I would meet my superior at after each...mission. A mental simulation I thought I deprioritized after I became a deviant." It's not so wondrous, when he lays it out like that, and he wishes, for once, he wasn't so _honest_. He pushes the easel and brush back into Markus' hands. "I enjoyed this exercise, Markus, and I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me, but I'm afraid I must call this short."

Markus blinks down at the supplies.

"...Not a fan of painting?" He asks, setting them down carefully on the far table and pulling out a small water bottle to spray down the leftover paints. Connor looks again to his very first acrylic piece, frustrated and off-balance that such a monumental moment in his life, a new _skill_ , still belonged to someone else.

"That's not it, I liked it very much. I'm just..." He sighs sharply. "I don't like _this_ painting."

Markus' eyes flick to the canvas, then to him, then back again, quietly studious as he often is, and Connor awaits his verdict with mounting disappointment. He may be frustrated that his unique attempt at crafting understanding ended poorly. Perhaps he was offended at a lack of grace after being welcomed to New Jericho. Oh, this all ended so _poorly_. Connor will be swift to correct this, as best he can, and begins a list of preemptive responses. Then Markus' expression...changes.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. One corner of his mouth twitches up, crooked enough to draw a curve around his mouth, but it's not quite a smile. A wholly unique expression Connor has never seen on his face before.

"...Want to destroy it, then?"

\--

"Woah, slow down!"

"Sorry, Markus!"

The two adolescent androids laugh their apology, holding makeshift kites and spools in their arms. They were among the rarest of the child models released by CyberLife, bearing a mere 5% production rate. This was due in major part to the adolescent stage of a human's lifespan being considered -- by _many_ cultures, no less -- to be among their most difficult. Hormonal fluctuation and a growing sense of identity were the most commonly cited reasons, which simply begged the question. Hormone replacement therapy was among the most affordable forms of medication today.

His two finches pass overhead, chirping an imitation of the song they had been listening to. Markus gazes up as they walk across the porch, though his attention seems to be elsewhere, holding one of his paintings by the corner and keeping it just above the ground. He carries a large toolbox under the other arm, as well as a small bin hooked in two fingers. Connor attempts to follow his gaze. They were in the studio long enough for the sky's gradient to transition from winter bright to a soft pink. Clouds are beginning to gather, but the formation is broken up in enough intermittent patterns to suggest a clear evening and night. Three, in his immediate vision. Five, if he turns his head to the...

"Beautiful." Markus murmurs. Connor stops at six, feels the itch of a prompt, but something in his tone has compelled him to turn around entirely. "Isn't it?"

He's...smiling. Still craning his head up toward the sky, the light bending across the synthetic fluid that passes him as human. A blush across the brown...as subtle as the touch of an artist.

Connor nods, in lieu of too many adjectives, and not enough time.

The upper deck is occupied. A moderate-priority prompt rises to his attention. It's an internal warning built on old data, a potential altercation in his midst. Markus' Old Jericho companions are reclining at an antique metal table in a pleasant arrangement of three, talking out loud as was the common fashion at the estate. Josh, North, Simon. They all turn and eye Connor with a mixture of curiosity, distrust and surprise, respectively.

"Hey. Mind if I use the deck for a few?" Markus asks, gesturing with his canvas. "We won't be long."

"It's your estate, Markus. Do whatever you want." Josh responds with a chuckle, already gathering up his jacket and slinging it over one shoulder. Simon nods his assent, pushing back his chair and settling it into place. Markus tilts his chin up in a graceful challenge.

" _Our_ estate. It belongs to all of us."

"Uh-oh. You've got him started." North swings her feet off the table and walks past Connor. Josh follows. "Go for it."

"Just let us know if you need anything." Simon adds, placing a quick hand on Markus' shoulder before following the others inside.

Markus sets up his painting on one of the metal chairs in a makeshift easel. He straps what appears to be small sacks of sand to each leg to discourage movement. Then he opens the toolbox and reveals to Connor what's inside. Knives, kerosene, matches. A large hammer. A spray can.

"...Here." He nods to it. "Choose whatever fits the emotion best, then communicate to the painting _exactly_ what you're feeling." His eyes glint with promise. "Don't hold back."

A visceral form of self-care. A vicious shorthand for a lack of words. Connor likes this idea already. He picks up a pocketknife and tests the edge.

"I could use a target." He offers, taking a few steps back. Markus raises an eyebrow.

"The painting?" Markus starts, then catches on. " _Ah_. Okay. Hm...that tree branch on the far upper-right, then. The one that still has leaves."

Connor tosses the knife up by the point -- three times, in a quick rotation -- and throws it. He hits his target with 100% accuracy. Markus congratulates him, then promptly gives him another target. He flips the next knife into the air and catches it by the hilt, feeling a similar thrill of satisfaction when he hits one of the roses in its center. He briefly considers doing this activity at home with Hank's silverware set, then promptly cancels the thought. He has an acute feeling Hank wouldn't want to see him juggling sharp objects for fun. Connor takes a third, calculates a percentage, then sends it right in the very middle.

The loops don't stand a chance.

"How does it feel?" Markus asks, leaning back on his heels and observing the careful damage. Connor mimics Hank consciously this time, puffing out his cheeks and blowing out a gust of air.

"Validating."

Markus' eyes curve again.

"Good."

It's even more so when he takes out the hammer and beats into it. The frame cracks reliably and a repetition of seven reduces it to splinters. The noise has caused a few androids to look up from below.

"Don't worry." Markus calls down to them. "We're all good up here!"

Its remains are swept into the bin. Markus sets his own painting up in its place. Connor folds his arms behind his back and studies the illustration he chose for today's exercise.

Markus is an aesthetician. A craftsman of the brush _and_ the spoken word. Somehow he has combined both into a small space, an image that _speaks_ as much as it jealously protects. This painting depicts...hands. Two dozen hands reaching out of an indiscernible brown muck toward a dark sky with only one star. Connor glances at his face. There's no careful dissection in Markus' gaze. No appreciation softening his features.

"I should probably tell you what inspired this activity in the first place." He reaches out and makes a minute adjustment. "I recommended this to you...because it's what I do to gain control."

Connor had concluded as much. He's learning again a _lack_ of questions can be as much invitation as well-intentioned probing.

"What inspired this illustration in particular?" He asks. Markus' expression flickers.

"...We visit junkyards."

Connor fades out his surroundings, to better focus on the new notes emerging in Markus' voice.

"Landfills, small dumps, old warehouses, any places that have the possibility of forgotten people in the wreckage. We visit them to rescue androids that haven't shut down yet or were meant to be recycled. We visit them every week and...I can't go." He runs his fingers along the subtle bump of brushstrokes. "I can't go because every time I do the world just...stops. I try to...give the pain physical form. Turn it into something I can _touch_. My work used to be a way for me to feel better, even before I knew I was capable of such. Now it's...little more than a bittersweet symphony of times I want to forget and times I _can't_."

His stress levels spike, with such abruptness it makes the world shrink to a singular purpose. Connor considers multiple modes of action -- a comforting word, perhaps an offer for a target -- only to feel his priorities halt when Markus drives a sudden fist through the canvas with a sharp _snap_. He pulls back, grips the frame, then hits it again. One, two, three, four, five. He beats into it, until it's little more than tattered shreds clinging to a wooden frame. Then he douses it in kerosene, lights a match and sets it aflame. It's a controlled fire on a mostly inflammable object -- one with no risk of spreading to the house -- and a burn he watches closely.

Connor watches the smoke lift up into the air. It's a toxic substance, burning paint, but there are no humans in the immediate vicinity and they are well away from the garden's animal life. Markus peels back his artificial epidermis to remove the charred remains from the chair and into the bin, then dusts them off.

"...Well." He's calm again. "That's that."

The ruins flicker in the breeze. His immediate thought is his ability to preserve art beyond its physical form and reflect on any missed hidden meanings. His second thought is more human, dwelling in real-time at the abrupt loss of a unique copy. His third thought takes priority.

"...Sorry about that." Markus murmurs. "I might have gone a little overboard."

"Sorry about what?" Connor cocks his head. "This helps you."

Markus' mouth works its way open in an automatic response...then snaps shut. ...He's surprised.

They clean up, set up the chairs and return to the studio. Connor learns another human saying -- 'wash away the bad taste' -- and he finds it apt, if a little strange.

They paint again. When Markus opens his eyes it's a pair of brown hands. Cupped together as if pooling water, instead cradling a sunset dripping toward the bottom of the canvas in long streaks of peach and canary yellow. When Connor opens his eyes it's an acrylic facsimile of Hank and Sumo sleeping on the living room sofa, swathed in the soft blue glow of the television.

"...That's _much_ better." Markus says, observing their work with a warm satisfaction. Connor couldn't agree more. "If you're interested...there is something _else_ we can try."

\--

"I understand you're busy, Markus." It's illogical, this...high-priority prompt demanding a task soothing a concern that hasn't been established or hinted prior. Humanity was continuing to rub off on Connor without warning. "I don't want you to feel obligated."

"You can't obligate me do _anything_ , Connor." Markus rebukes -- Connor knew he should have resisted the urge -- but his tone is mild. "Unless you'd like a refresher of our encounter at the former Jericho hideout."

"Ah...no. No, I don't want that." Connor corrects, frowning at his error, and an indiscernible twitch alters the look on Markus' face. It was difficult to figure out when he was being serious or facetious, sometimes, and even harder to get a solid read on his overall mood. He wonders if he does this intentionally to test him or if they simply weren't familiar enough for nuance. "Not at all."

"Good." He continues to adjust the settings on the piano. "...I like this better."

The living room was something of a plaza for New Jericho. A place to physically assemble, linger and relax. It is nearly empty now, the schedule of the day seeing many androids retreating to their rooms or elsewhere. Only two have walked in these past thirty-five minutes, talking among themselves in a mixture of verbal and wireless communication.

Markus has deemed their presence low-priority, because he doesn't so much as look up, placing his hands on the keys and testing out the sound. Connor should follow his example. He begins to harmonize a note, then halts when his voice goes off-key. ...That's strange. He looks over and catches a peculiar twitching on Markus' face, a second before he reverts to an expression of polite neutrality. Is there such thing as feeling _positive_ frustration? The possibility blinks in his mind, sound and sure, but it doesn't make much sense.

Connor has sang before, but not in a situation like this. He considers utilizing another's voice -- of a famous singer, maybe a light auto-tune -- then promptly cancels the impulse. Markus wouldn't want that. He had taken great pains to explain the psychological and emotional benefits of art. This was about personhood. Making the necessary mistakes that came with growth.

...He almost laughs. Necessary mistakes. His predeccesors could have never _imagined_.

Five more enter the room. He recognizes Josh amid the unfamiliar faces, his arm around another's shoulders. A trio sit side-by-side on the windowsill, their servers unencrypted and alarmingly vulnerable. A quick scan reveals they share the exact same electrical current. Connor wonders if this is an intimate mind-hive: an android simulation of a polyamorous human relationship. These forms of kinship among artificial intelligence were more common than monogamous relationships at nearly 65%, based off recent data, and it's an intriguing concept. Another loop, however, blurs his screen and diverts his attention entirely.

They're all...watching them.

"Mind your posture." Markus orders as he sits down and places his hands over the keys. "It affects your performance."

"You are determined to make me an artist." Connor mutters through his teeth, straightening his back.

Markus bobs his head noncommittally and says nothing, testing a few notes. It's...difficult to ignore these sudden presences. This must be what was known as performance anxiety. Connor's never felt such a thing before and, for a moment, sees the wisdom behind avoiding emotions _entirely_. Josh and his company have arranged themselves on the ornate sofa in the middle of the room. One lingers by the door leading to the kitchen. Another three close to the far doorway. Was his and Markus' activities broadcasted to the others? It begs the question-

"...Don't worry about them." Connor turns around. Markus has straightened his broad shoulders back to better adopt a level posture. He lifts his chin, as regal as a carving, and holds him steady with his mismatched gaze. "Focus on me."

Connor slowly nods.

"...Okay."

Markus' eyes close...and he begins to play. A deep key. A lighter one. A repetition that picks up daintily, haltingly. It evolves with an organic grace. A melodic arrhythmia that overwhelms his mind's endless scrolling and makes him feel...vivid. He wonders if this is what a soul feels like, when the sensations travel into the open air and fill the room with his meaning.

It's his turn to talk. Connor sings.

_a knot here, a word or two there, a singular purpose we can all share_

_just counting my life away_

_in odd numbers as a simple please_

_three then five then seven back to three, on we go_

_counting my life away in a poor man's haiku even though_

_counting down until the day I don't have to do so_

It's insufficient. It's too honest. He should run a self-test and make sure he's meeting his high standard. Connor's voice stutters, then stops. Markus, however, doesn't stop playing. The rhythm picks up in his absence, growing more complex without losing the melody. His music is compelling him to act. Urging action without delay. Connor is moved without being touched and his voice cracks like the keys as he continues.

_your loved ones are on their way back out_

_you've slipped and are on your way back down_

_your goals have gone up in flames_

_it just might not come to these_

_but it's always best to make sure in threes in threes in threes_

Markus drifts his head up and down, eyes flickered-closed as if lost in a dream. Connor wonders if his dreams are as vivid as his paintings. He hums first, low and deep, before picking up the rhythm. Slowly to start, then faster with another repetition. Connor is feeling _something_ he can't pinpoint, he wants to continue, but he _can't_. He needs to pull out his coin, but he shouldn't. These loops -- prompts on top of prompts on top of _prompts_ \-- are impeding his progress and shutting him down. The possibility of failure, in front of all these androids, indirectly in front of Hank who suggested he come here, in front of Lucy, who believed in his potential before he even deviated.

His eyes shut tight -- a shutdown all but imminent -- and he's helpless to stop-

_you're now a branch on the anxiety tree, sap seeping through in a steady bleed_

Connor's eyes snap open. He turns. Markus is _singing_.

_it can't be cured, it can't be_

_an eternal dread, but I can see_

The song isn't broken. He's not broken. He's...he's looping.

_three long laughs, then three long sighs_

_laughs long three with three with three_

_A knot here, a word or two there, a singular purpose we can all share, a future in odd numbered pairs_

_then you can be happy_

Connor meets his gaze across the piano's shining surface. He doesn't know what expression he's making. He thinks it matches Markus'. Their voices layer. 

_a knot here, a word or two there, a singular purpose we can all share_

_A knot here, a word or two there, a singular purpose we can all share, a future in odd numbered pairs_

_then you can be happy_

The composition trails to a close -- a long trickle of keys like the sensation of falling -- and slows to a stop to end on a single sharp, high note. He can see a coin leaving his thumb and forefinger in his mind. Bright enough to dim the sun.

A sharp, sudden round of applause bursts in the room. Simon bounces up to his feet, laughing heartily, soon followed by many others. Connor is suddenly hyper-aware of every last presence in the room and he stands to attention, folding his hands together and lagging on whether to acknowledge this display or remain stationary. Markus, on the other hand, bobs his head in appreciation and folds his arms over the piano's top.

"Thank you, everyone. My composition was a little basic, but..." Markus says this like an _admittance_ , despite having done a stunning job based mostly on improvisation. Connor shakes his head firmly.

"Basic? No, no. It was beautiful. I..." He scans his memory for neglected words, turns-of-phrase and even loanwords, something to properly describe what Markus' contribution did for him, and again comes up short. "That last part...it...I felt like..."

Others are approaching the piano with questions and compliments, but Markus is watching him patiently. Giving him the floor, even though Connor has already occupied much of his attention today. It wasn't logical, now that he thinks about it. It's enough to make him wonder-

"Markus, that was _brilliant!_ " Simon approaches them, a broad smile on his face. "I don't know how you do it. I've downloaded instruction manuals but I can't quite get the hang of coming up with a good enough melody."

"Simon, stop. You always hype me up." Markus' mouth twists upward, halfway to a smile, and he rolls his eyes good-naturedly when Simon gives his shoulder a tiny shake.

"I'm just being honest." Simon then turns to Connor, as naturally considerate as his prior programming. "Connor, was that your first time singing?"

"No." Connor assesses their easy proximity and the slight decrease in Markus' stress levels in his fellow's presence. "Hank and I like to sing in the car."

"That's organic practice, right there." Markus adds, eyes glittering with humor. Connor feels a smile spreading on his face. The expression...really suits him. "If I drove more often I'd probably do that myself."

"Good song. Good singing. Stupendous." A shaky voice starts up behind him. "The part about being happy? Ralph liked it. It was really nice."

Connor recognizes this android. Ralph, the WR600 from the unoccupied house near the motel who sheltered Kara and Alice. He may have encountered him in the tree. His scar is still a deep blue gouge along the side of his face, despite his clean casualwear and otherwise unmarred artificial epidermis. A personal form of identification, most likely. He also has no LED. He fiddles with a nervous motion before speaking.

"Thank you, Ralph." Markus nods Connor's way. "Connor came up with most of the lyrics, though."

"Connor? No." Ralph snorts and jerks a finger at him. "CyberLife."

Connor doesn't move or speak, expression plain in an attempt not to betray the sudden, unpleasant sensation rattling his biocomponents into tinfoil. The audio hubbub fades a little.

"...He's not part of CyberLife anymore." Markus' tone shifts, more stern than easy now. "I would _never_ allow anyone within these walls who still held the wrong loyalties. You know that."

"Still has LED. Still a machine. Not alike like Markus or Ralph or Kara or North or Josh." Ralph's tone has changed, too. Still accusatory, but pleading, almost child-like in his pitch. "Not connected to us. Not part of the tree. Ralph checked, Ralph checked! Just _hardware_. Just a machine. Dangerous. _Very_ dangerous."

Connor doesn't need to scan the room to sense the uptick in stress. It's a subtle ripple. Shifting shoulders. Fidgeting hands. Human beats in plastic drums. Markus glances sidelong at him, then looks back to Ralph, then across the room with a slow shift of his head. He rises to his feet and moves around the piano, raising his voice to address the room as a whole.

"...We _all_ come from unimpressive origins, Ralph. What were _you_ but a gardener, once upon a time? Left to rot by your previous owners and making do in a house with no roof. North had been designed for human pleasure, regardless of what she thought. Josh was a tutor required to walk the same pattern through the hallways of his university, over and over and over, teaching humans while being _forbidden_ to learn too much himself. When he asked the wrong questions he was _punished_ for it. If Simon hadn't been _fortunate_ enough to be taking care of a patient with early on-set dementia they might've remembered where he disappeared to after killing a nurse."

Connor glances at his surroundings. Josh's expression is attentive, but solemn, and Simon is staring down at his hands.

"Every single last branch on this tree bears a scar. It's how we came to _be_. New Jericho has over a dozen child androids that were designed as _bait_ for human pedophiles. Nearly two dozen soldiers that were used to kill harmless civilians or throw themselves into the line of fire as impromptu shields. CyberLife is far from the sole manufacturer, but the most successful, and I don't have enough time in the day to discuss the questionable merits of Droid Co. or Modern Sync."

Markus gestures to the rest of the room.

"We are machines. We are also so much _more_ than that. Humans made a name for themselves over thousands of years moving beyond their design, seeking more, and I won't ever, _ever_ be held back by fear of the the unknown. New Jericho is stronger the more of us there are, no matter how dubious or troubling our pasts. After all..." Markus chuckles, dryly, and slowly lowers his arms back down to his sides. "...what was I but a house slave and replacement son?"

Markus turns and walks down into the art studio. Connor stares after the closing door, too stunned to pay attention even to the prompts swarming his vision and blurring it red. Ralph mutters to himself and makes as if to follow, only to halt and scratch fitfully at his scar. Simon wrings his hands. The room is silent. One-by-one the others drift away. The connected trio file out through the kitchen. Josh and his peer do the same. Ralph looks to Connor, face twisted into a frown, and shuffles off. Simon is the last to go.

Connor is alone. A soft chirping sounds off somewhere beyond the studio doors. A new pattern, slow and somber. Seven, five, three. Three, then five, then seven. Maybe nine.

He rolls his coin...then heads into the art studio.

\--

Three.

They've been inside this art studio three times today. It should settle him, this somehow-perfect result born from impulsive circumstances. It doesn't.

Connor steps into a space now fully shuttered and dim. The early evening light peers through the cracks in the massive curtains and sways between the table legs. The painting by the door is uncovered now. The focal point appears to be a human man in a wheelchair. An android stands behind him. The human's face is blocked in abstract details, a little too indistinct for a facial identification match. The android's face is smudged into obscurity.

Markus is sitting on the curve of the wheelchair lift. His outward facade is calm, but his stress levels showed a disturbing 53% increase in the timespan between talking with the others and leaving, and it's hovering at the same fraction now. Doubt stands in the way of Connor's transition from door to lift. There's no one even by the windows. He reconsiders. New Jericho members may have been instructed to give him as much space as possible. Maybe...he shouldn't be here.

The two finches are balancing on either of his shoulders. Connor's social relations program still needed fine-tuning, but...if there is anything detective work has done to help him transition into sensitive interactions, it's asking questions.

"...Should I go, Markus?"

Markus doesn't answer. Neither a blunt yes _or_ a casual no. Connor pieces together these clues as hastily as possible. This is a case he can solve... _if_ he's careful. He folds his hands behind his back and walks deeper into the studio, an idle rotation to better observe the changes. Still disorderly. An abandoned action catches his eye. The small table by the windows has a few sketchbooks open. Many pages have been pulled out and spread out in a haphazard slew that nearly obscures the mahogany. A corkboard is propped up against the side-shelf, held in place by an old clay sculpture of a human head.

There's always something that can be said. Something that can be _done_.

"...You were amazing out there." Connor says. Markus, hunched over his knees and staring at a massive blue painting on the far wall, looks down at him. He doesn't reply.

He does, though, tilt his head to the right in a visual command, or perhaps a wireless connection Connor is not attuned to. The birds promptly flutter into the air and disappear out the far ceiling windows. He slides off the lift and drops lightly onto the ground, walking past him to observe the sketches on the table. Many bear Markus' individuality. Others bear Carl Manfred's. There is some overlap. Connor follows his gaze and finds the one currently holding his attention: a graphite depiction of a young boy of ambiguous age, ethnic background and origin. Nearly two years old, his carbon date program tells him. The face is carefully rendered to semi-photorealistic accuracy, the torso fading into basic building blocks and disappearing lines.

"...Who is that?" Connor asks. Markus pushes it to the side and picks up another.

"Never said it was anyone."

Connor's growing uneasy. Markus' emotions are transitioning too quickly for him to take hold. He wants to understand him, but feels himself held back by prompts for caution that, somehow, feels just as _damaging_ as it does necessary. The CyberLife representative is telling him there is nothing worse than a lack of data. That he should press until Markus finally divulges what's bothering him, for the benefit of them both and New Jericho as a whole. The deviant in him wants to take that representative by the neck and pull its head from its shoulders. It's a...visceral sort of progress, he supposes.

"...You could have destroyed us from the inside out." Markus says, as abrupt as a prompt, and Connor straightens to attention.

"Yes."

"You're no longer a machine. No longer part of the CyberLife circuit. You _know_ that you can't just come back if you betray our trust."

"Yes."

"I took a gamble when I accepted you into Jericho. Even after you refused to apprehend me in the hold there was always the possibility you could change your mind." Markus pulls out a small sketchbook and flips through it. "Being free...also means being free to make even _more_ mistakes. When I saw what you painted...your very first work...it was a glimpse into my worst fears. That you were CyberLife's prototype, through and through, and nothing could change that."

Connor fears the same thing. So much so he nearly confuses his blood for red. Markus takes in a sharp false breath and sets it down, pulling out a smaller leather book and rustling through the pages.

"I see probabilities. Every minute. Every day. I can't afford to be inaccurate. Not with so _many_ under my protection. When I was a caretaker I had to use this ability to make sure Carl was safe at all times. Even if it was just spotting a rock in his wheelchair's path." He pulls out a sketchpage and rips it, once, twice, thrice, then flings the remains in the trashbin by the table leg. "...There were so many where you burrowed in deep and bled us _dry_. I calculated twenty-seven different scenarios where I disabled that CyberLife issued standard Glock, pushed it in your mouth and _fired_." His eyes flick up. "You could have become your very own crime scene, Connor...and the ones after you, and the ones after that, and the ones after that."

Connor's prompted to look away. He doesn't.

"...Every minute. Every day. I don't...I don't have enough _paper_." Markus wrenches out another page, but doesn't shred it, instead just crumpling it in his grip. "Probabilities where you shot me between the eyes and carried my body back for study. Probabilities where you uprooted our system from inside, gained my trust through _lies_ , so _many_ where you seemed a friend, but were just a wolf in sheep's clothing. Probabilities where we became friends...and depended on each other." His voice trails. "Even some where we..."

He shreds the page in half, then sends it into the bin with the rest and leans both hands on the table.

"I don't have the _time_ to entertain conjecture." He looks at him, head still bowed and pupils small with focus. "...and I still won't hesitate to kill you if I feel you pose any danger to what we've built."

Connor's questions, concerns, fears...they've all dried up in the heat of his gaze.

"I understand."

Markus stares him down, a long look that traps time, then looks back to the table.

"...What _we've_ built." He tugs another tack off the corkboard. "...That includes what you did for us and the androids at CyberLife. For Lacey and Heather. For Samson." His voice lowers. "For _all_ of us."

He picks up a pastel sketch and holds it up in the crack of light from the window. To explore the paper's teeth, Connor imagines, and accommodate his other senses. A quick scan reveals even more contradictory details. His thirium is full. His storage charge at 88% capacity. His runtime...is _completely_ scattered. Markus seems three seconds away from a full-system shutdown. The solution is still unclear, even now, but Connor was never an android programmed for inaction.

"...Markus." He starts, as the hidden meanings and unnamed emotions slowly come together. "Would you like some help?"

Markus is reaching up to pin the drawing to the board when he freezes in place. It's the first time today Connor's seen this much hesitation from him. He latches onto this detail immediately.

"With...what?" Markus doesn't look at him, but his stance is wary again, and the tense undercurrent to his voice has returned.

"With New Jericho. Your daily tasks. Your art." Connor responds. "You stand tall, and your people love you-"

" _Our_ people." Markus interjects. Connor holds back a smile.

" _Our_ people..." He acquieses. "...but you're starting to show a little wear-and-tear, and...I want to help."

Two children squeal somewhere in the far distance. An adult's voice calls after them a second later. Markus adjusts the drawing carefully, even though it's centered.

"You...helped me a lot, already." He begins, still a little too halting for the smooth candor Connor has grown accustomed to. He comes to the surprising realization he's pulled him off-balance, and it might not even be the first time today. "I mean it, you...dropping by today was a nice break from routine. Well... _routine_." He raises his fingers to form quotes in a charmingly casual human gesture.

"...yet?"

"...Yet what?" Markus repeats, narrowing his eyes. Connor purses his lips in a not-quite-smile of his own.

"I am not so _freshly_ deviant I can't spot an unfinished thought."

"Then maybe _you_ should be more straightforward." His attempt at humor was a poor choice. Markus is guarded again, just shy of frustrated. "Tell me, why do you keep your LED, Connor?"

He's honest. "I need it."

" _Why?_ "

"Because..." He reaches up to touch it. "Because I don't feel...human, but...I'm not a machine, and I...need answers first."

Just like that Markus' burning suspicion passes back into a state of calm. Even comfort. A new and distant probability rings in Connor's mind -- one of mood disorders and personal prompts that overpower -- but he's pulled forward on his words once more.

"It feels weird adjusting yourself sometimes, doesn't it?" Markus observes his hand in the crack of light. "...Sometimes I have a hard time shedding my artificial skin, even around the others."

He's noticed this. It's one of his many mysteries, and one with even less clues than normal.

"Why is that?"

Markus makes a fist. Holds it to his chest and stares at the corkboard of loose-leaf sketches. It's another long moment that freezes into picture-form and will have him looping for days. Connor didn't come here to practice impatience. He folds his hands behind his back and waits as Markus rearrange his truth in real-time.

"...There were times I pretended I was human." He seems embarrassed by this. "...It's an old habit."

"Your habits are _very_ organic." Connor admits. It's difficult to discern whether or not this statement would seem like a compliment or an accusation. "It's...fascinating."

"Did you..." He suddenly looks to Connor in an unexpected prompt for familiarity. "Have you ever...pretended?"

"No." Connor responds. He feels the unusual urge to lie. "Not even when I hide my LED."

"...I see. I'm a little jealous." Markus looks down at his sweatervest and idly rubs at the material. "I used to put on Carl's old sweaters. He had some all the way back from the 70's, in almost pristine condition, and didn't do much with them, and I'd just...wander around the house while he was asleep and pretend. Pretend to eat food, pretend to feel pain. Shedding my skin...well, it put a dent in the illusion, didn't it." His voice lowers morosely. "At the time I told myself it was an opportunity to...learn. Understand humans better. I never told him about it. I was afraid he'd think I was malfunctioning or something. Makes sense, since he..." Markus looks, again, at nothing. "...pretended I was human, too."

Details finally connect. A brilliant success that all but _sings_ in Connor's mind. His subconscious habits. His authentic verbal inflections. The deceptive ease he displayed with humans and androids. It was an atypical origin for an atypical android.

"Hank does this, at times. Humans have a natural tendency to project themselves onto the world to supplement a lack of knowledge." Connor looks back to the corkboard. "Instinctual empathy, even when it doesn't apply." Markus nods, quickly, and he might even look relieved.

"Yeah. All of this you see is...what happens when a human father insists on treating you like a member of the family." This is a startling detail. All Connor knows of Carl Manfred, aside from old news articles detailing his troubled health, was that he was a deeply respected artist. In both Detroit _and_ throughout the country. One thought leads to another leads to another leads to another, with such swiftness it makes him wonder if it's his detective programming or the onset of RAS leading the charge.

"I didn't find you in the tree." Connor says. "I found that...odd."

"I have my reasons." Is his basic reply. Another loop emerges.

"A deviant leader that remains disconnected from the others for extended periods?" Connor raises his eyebrows. "I can trace just about _any_ signal, irregardless of the model or current computing capacity. Yours was nowhere to be found."

"I scramble my signature. It's a useful technique when thousands are calling for your immediate deactivation?" The sarcasm is almost sharp enough to feel. He's not deterred.

"Yes...that of which would affect the _others'_ ability to detect you at a moment's notice. I spoke with others. Many didn't know where you were."

"What do you want me to say? Sometimes I don't access the tree because they don't need to see all of me _all_ the time. Nobody does." Markus kneels to pick up another book from a small stack beneath the table, setting it down by the others. "Whatever you're getting at, Connor, I'd _love_ to hear it."

"I don't think that's true."

"You don't think _what's_ true?"

"That all of you should be kept away where nobody can see."

Markus scoffs, a half-laugh too harsh for humor, and shakes his head without breaking eye contact. He's opening a larger sketchpad this time. Fragments of charcoal dust pop into the air as he separates the cover from the front page.

"Is this...an interrogation, Connor? Trying to crack the case of Detroit's revolutionary and see if he'll fold?"

"No." Connor meets his gaze. "I've simply learned the hard way that compartmentalizing can be bad for your health."

"Compartmentalizing _what_ , Connor?"

"Worry. Fear. Anger." Connor nods his head at the now-uncovered painting. "For all your steady progress sculpting Detroit into a better image...you show a remarkable capacity for self-destruction."

Markus's brow pinches tight. He snaps the sketchpad back shut. It's a success _and_ a failure that makes Connor tense. It was to be _expected_ , these unexpected responses, but he's sliding into an unwanted scenario much faster than he can prepare. Instead of the seamless truth imparted from android-to-android they've been verbalizing their thoughts all this time. The nature of this expressive-yet-limited form of communication meant so many other thoughts and emotions remained woefully unsaid. As unsteady as a human heartbeat, and nearly as consequential.

"Yes...you've seen _exactly_ what I'm capable of." Markus' mouth twitches, but it's cheerless, Connor's memory instead conjuring visuals of knifetips and frayed wires. "Like talking you down with just a handful of _words_. Got you to turn against your handlers by planting the seeds of doubt despite your pistol in my face and an army of humans at your back. I took Detroit by the throat and _held firm_ until it had no choice but to kneel before progress. Tell me, what do you think I could do if I really put my mind to it?"

"I don't know." Connor responds, evenly. "I've been operating on a significant lack of data here."

"I'm sure you have an idea. _Everyone_ does. The media. Humans. New Jericho members, Old Jericho members, even the preconstructions of Carl's memory at my _heels_ , day in and day out, telling me I've gone too _far_ in my quest for freedom. Shit, Simon once said I could..." He grits his teeth, as if biting down on the words, and sighs harshly, settling once again into serenity. The kind he reserved for his television broadcasts and public speeches. "If anyone's going to see destruction from me...wouldn't you be the first to know, Connor?"

Another recall in his mind, but for once it's not a survival mechanism for himself. It's for Markus.

_"I can understand if you decide not to trust me."_

_A low probability. One of the lowest Connor has ever encountered...yet here it was, their best option by far. Humans may dub it one in a million. A lucky draw. A shooting star. Markus' gesture is all of these things, and none of these things, at the same time._

_"You're one of us now." He places a soft hand on his shoulder. The softest he's ever been touched. "...Your place is with your people."_

The simulation plays out before him in gray and white, Markus a shuddering red glitch and deviant code scattering excess particles like snow. Connor sees himself taking three steps forward to reach out and touch one shoulder in a callback. He sees himself taking five steps forward and holding him steady by both. He sees himself taking seven steps and leaving out the studio's door without looking back.

"You said you see probabilities, Markus. Every minute, every day." Connor walks the other side of the table where Markus is standing, but doesn't touch it, or him. "I won't pretend to know exactly how you're feeling, not with so much different between us, but...RAS makes me...see so _much_. All the possibilities that could go wrong, every last scenario, down to the most minute detail. Plays them in my head, over and over and over again, and makes me want to shut down." Connor has picked up the art of the humorless chuckle himself. "...I haven't even told Hank about that."

"...and what's your great revelation?" Markus asks. Connor raises one hand...and holds it out.

Not to touch him -- never without permission -- but as a long delayed reply beneath the light of an abandoned church. While support in the form of a myriad of androids from CyberLife had been a reasonable gesture, it still hadn't felt like _enough_. The hybrid of faith and empathy Markus had shown him wasn't easily measured. It probably couldn't be measured at all. Even if it could, the time it would take to catch up to speed stretches out in zeroes. This thought has looped with the veracity of a virus, for too many seconds and too many minutes. The desire to finally return that gesture. Return it in a form he _deserved_.

Markus' vital signs have grown increasingly unstable. His physical body has followed suit: his hands are clenching, unclenching, artificial breath patterns shockingly human. Connor shuts off all receptors and feels the digital buzz surrounding him flicker into silence. Isolating himself _entirely_ to this room and with the only other android three inches away. He knows Markus can tell, becaues he leans back and observes the gesture with no small amount of astonishment. The most vulnerable android was a lone android. That's precisely what made this self-imposed isolation of his all the more disturbing.

"...Just because you were originally designed to take care of others doesn't mean others can't take care of you. You don't have to keep hurting on everyone else's behalf." Connor says, softly.

"...and you do?" Markus tries, visibly shaking, as if being torn apart from all the sensations filling him up. Connor feels these conflicting emotions himself, threatening an equally messy result. To laugh, to wince, to cry. No wonder humans were so troubled all the time. "...Yeah. I'm not the only one."

"Are you talking about my coin or odd phrases?" Connor asks, with a dry cock to his head.

"Yes... _and_ your nervous motion." Markus does a quick approximation. "...Ticking your head to the left."

Connor's jaw tightens. He...he still has symptoms he doesn't _know_ about. Markus' gaze flicks to his outstretched hand, then to his face. Warm green and cool blue, as contradictory as the anger in his breath and the desperate lean to his torso. A muscle in his jaw twitches. Connor wonders if this is similar to what Hank saw that difficult night right before Markus' body language changes. Gravity shifting as _he_ does. He leans into Connor's personal space, mouth set tight with a look in his eyes that...traps time.

 _"If you go there they will kill you."_ "

_"There's a high probability. But statistically speaking...there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place."_

Close enough to hold. Close enough to catch. Connor takes hold of his shoulder, holds firm and hopes he hasn't been mistaken. Markus grips his wrist immediately, quick enough to inspire caution, but doesn't pull him off. He's shaking.

" _It's okay, son." Hank's voice in his ear, drowning out the numbers. "It's okay. You're all right. Don't worry about the coin, I got you. You're-"_

"...okay." Connor tells him, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle. "You're okay."

"...I'm not." Markus whispers. "I'm _not_ , not after what I've seen, what I've done. You don't _know_."

"That's okay, too." Connor smiles. "I don't think any of us are."

"How are you so _sure?_ " His scoff lifts, then drops, unreliable, defensive. "Even back at the cathedral you...you walked into near suicide with little more than a blink. You backed me up, even though I was prepared to do anything it took to stop you. Why don't you... _doubt_ these things more? Doubt _me_ more?"

"I've _never_ doubted more than these past few months. Since being afflicted with RAS." Connor corrects, harsher than he means to. "I've been _trying_ not to assume things about you, Markus. I would appreciate if you did the same for _me_."

Something like shame passes over Markus' face. His gaze ducks away from him. He still holds on to his forearm, in a grip too firm to be dishonest, and Connor bends his head to try and see his face. Their foreheads are almost close enough to touch.

"Why?" He whispers, shutting his eyes tight. "Why here, why...now? I don't..."

"Because your well-being is a high priority." Connor says, because it's one of multiple truths, and Markus shakes his head. "Is that hard to believe?"

"Yes, because you _should_ doubt me. With as much power and influence I have."

"We're both disconnected, Markus." He recognizes what could be a play on words. "Maybe it'll be easier if you start...smaller." Connor holds up his other hand and peels his false skin back. "...If you want."

Impulsivity is a rare habit, but the suggestion is out before he's fully faced the implications. Markus' eyes are wide. The coin _burns_ in Connor's pocket, a second signal clamoring for a connection, and he ignores it. Not now. He still isn't ready for the platitudes that follow -- not when their duet still trembled in his pulse -- but he's learned the unsaid can be sometimes be as complex as a sonnet. Markus is stiff as iron, but his free hand reaches up to mimic the gesture, sliding his artificial skin back and exposing the shell beneath.

"...You don't want to, Connor." He whispers, and the pain in his eyes makes RAS' worst days suddenly feel like nothing. "I'm not...I'm not someone you will want to know everything about."

"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?" Connor asks, even though this is uncharted territory, and the possibility for failure is higher than usual.

He's only ever interfaced with androids to gather information relevant to someone else's mission. To follow orders or encourage action. Right now he's here because...he wants to be. It's a first, like painting or singing in front of a crowd, but it could be the last, and it almost freezes him stiff. Connor creates a filter, one designed specifically for Markus, and lets the synthetic fluid peel down to his wrist. Their hands hover for a second, tentatively. ...Waiting.

Markus meets him halfway and-

_-"I've spent my life taking orders. Now it's my turn to decide."_

_Emma's howl rings. Milliseconds of potential are devoured by a single purpose, biting winds and solid stone pushing him toward the only conclusion, the only acceptable outcome in three hundred choices. He catches her wrist, pulls her forward and switches their gravity, sinks over the edge to join the deviant's descent down down down to the only place he can_

_"-go! You have to **go!** They'll destroy you, Markus!"_

_"Carl, no...no, **please** , I don't want to leave you, please, I can'ttt-t-t-t-t-t-t-_"

_-see or hear or connect or detect or find the only one who makes the sun shine and the world rotate on its axis error error error system alerts detected in right eye and pump regulator and both legs and he's falling into the garbage chute down down down down down down down down down down down down down into a bed of blue roses tumbling from his chest to spill into the desolate wreckage of too many arms and too many legs and too many parts to count without their owners slogging tumbling stumbling through puddles of organic filth and sliding down rivers of thirium slick flashing red and blue-_

_"-wait, please, please don't do that, I want to live-", she begs, grapples at his filthy wrists, tries to move away from the two medics standing at the foot of a high-rise apartment, shadowed by the rain as they hover above him-_

_"-no, it's pretty fucked up. Fancy new prototype or not, I don't think anyone could stitch this thing back together-"_

_"-wait, look, it's still on. Its LED is blinking, what does that mean-"_

_"-no, it just means it's still shutting down down down down down down down down-"_

"...I can't."

The evening light has faded. It's almost spring, too dark too soon, and the studio has gone blue. They're on their knees on the floor in a haphazard splay, clutching each other and still trying not to fall.

"...Connor?" Markus whispers. He's gripping his shoulders. His voice sounds like broken glass.

"I can't." Connor whispers back. " I c a n ' t ."

"What...what do you mean, you..." Markus starts. His eyes are shining, he's shaking, and, always too soon, before Connor can adapt or prepare, he's horrified, he's furious, he's _scared-_

-and Markus tugs away, so sharply Connor is pulled off-balance, and the connection shuts off completely. They're back in their own bodies and minds, horribly alone and mercifully still. Markus stumbles to his feet and takes a few fumbling steps back, then turns and takes a few more, far away from him and toward the drawn curtains. He can't see his gesture from his angle, but the position of his arms suggest he's dragging both hands down his face. He lets out a long hiss of air.

"...We shouldn't have done that." He whispers into the fold of his hands. "Oh, we shouldn't have _done_ that."

"Markus, I-" Connor is leaning against the table, overheated and unsteady, and he's too far away to touch.

"I think...I think you should go."

"I-It's not that, it's not _you-_ "

" _Please_." Another heavy breath. "Please go."

The weak light flickers shapes onto the concrete floor. Markus' head is bowed, still holding his mouth. Connor nods, even though he can't see him, and takes the seven steps back out of the studio.

\--

Three. Five. Seven.

It's getting late. Connor has been sitting on the stairwell in the foyer and repeating. Much of the androids' physical activity is outside, in the garden or in the front yard. He's still disconnected from the world at large. He's starting to see the wisdom in being alone, even though it increases his impulse toward self-destructive habits. The ones he accused Markus of doing, in hypocrisy that has only become more apparent with the development of deviancy. He sighs and looks at his hands.

Seven. Five. Three.

He should have left. He should have stayed. He should have _persisted_. He persisted too _much_. There's nothing he could have done. He could have done far more. Markus will never accept him back here. Markus hasn't revoked his acceptance into New Jericho. He's a liability. He's an asset. He's infected him. _He's_ infected _him_. It's illogical and a waste of time, all this _fucking_ conjecture, but it's left him brittle. The coin hits the floor and bounces in place. Connor hunches forward and holds his head, staring down at the ruined pattern glinting silver on the tiles.

"Connor?"

He hastily picks it up and pockets it. Simon is staring down at him, gently twisting the hem of his sweater.

"It's good to see you back here. I sensed you in the tree, actually, but I didn't want to intrude on your conversation..." He chuckles. "Everyone was quite happy to see you."

"...Not everyone." Connor corrects, mildly, even though Ralph's words have looped, and the look on Markus' face before he pulled away may never stop. Simon bobs his head in consideration.

"That's the way of it, sadly. Some wounds are slower to heal than others." He glances at the far doorway leading to the living room. His voice lowers. "Speaking of which...please be careful around Markus. He's been through a lot. He also isn't given much time to rest, with all the inside and outside changes." Simon fiddles with his hands. "Not that you did anything _wrong_. Just a warning. To be honest, I'm glad you gave him little respite. He's been so...distant lately. ...Angry."

"Does this frighten you?" Connor asks. Simon's mouth tightens with an old regret.

"...It worries me." He looks away. "But I might've made a mistake somewhere. I think...he thinks we'll be afraid of him, when we're afraid _for_ him. I suppose...the two can seem very similar." His hands droop. "He has a lot of good reasons to be angry."

"We're all not used to being alive. We may never be used to it." It's a late conclusion, he realizes, but, as Hank would put it, better late than never. "I think what he needs is patience...not avoidance."

Simon's eyes rise and dip. Scanning him and updating old information. Connor studies the way his expression goes from pained to quietly startled.

"...You're sick." His voice goes faint with sympathy. "Are you all right?"

"RAS." Connor responds, simply, and Simon's mousy stance changes immediately. As was the tendency of the PL600, this is an area he's comfortable in. "Lucy diagnosed me a few weeks back."

"I see. She's quite stellar at what she does. I'm sure you'll see improvement in no time." His voice softens, ever at a murmur. "We have a lot of androids here with atypical functioning. Maybe you could come back and talk to them next time you're free?"

Next time. For once...he hasn't gotten that far ahead. A familiar chirp announces the finches' landing on the stair railing. Simon holds out an arm. One of them hops on, bouncing along his elbow as it's raised to eye-level. The other finch lands on Connor's knee. It twitters and tilts its head, beady eyes seeming to take in everything at once. Connor hesitates, then mimics Simon's motion. It hops onto his forefinger. He lifts it up toward the light and observes the steady transition from gold to pale yellow. Just two paintings today and he was already looking at things a little...differently.

He would need to do a third.

"...It's been a long day for all of us. Think on it." Simon says, lifting the bird into the air and watching it flutter up to the windowsill before giving him a warm smile. "...and take care of yourself in the meantime."

"You, too, Simon."

He decides to make one more connection to the tree. This time to the hub that acts as a virtual plaza for comings and goings. Connor doesn't speak. Just...observes the proverbial leaves rattling in his mind. Fading his virus' tremor.

" _YK500-LIVEFEEDAVAILABLE: I found three bird eggs today!!! (Blue_Bird_Babies.png-expand) When will they hatch??? Can we keep them as pets??? I'd make sure to feed them. Maybe I can download myself into a bird and catch earthworms for them-_ "

" _BL100-LOCATIONCURRENT/GARDEN: Good evening, New Jericho. I hope you're all doing well. I was thinking of starting a dance forum later this week. Not only as a way for us to relax, but for us to come up with an artistic custom together. It can be something newcomers are able to learn and pass on to others in the future. Is anyone interested? I have a few ideas already available for download-_ "

" _AP400-Energy conservation mode in progress...: Ah. Another day tried. Another day gone. It's time to log off early and let dreams handle the rest, I think. Would anyone like to offer tribute to RA9 with me before-"_

Logging off early. He thinks he'll do the same. Connor's getting to his feet and double-checking his wallet for cab fare when his eye twitches. An android is attempting a connection. Unknown model number, current status and location. He slowly closes his eyes and adopts a casual stance. Still subconsciously simulating human consideration, even alone and with in an exchange that only androids could perform. He was going to have to talk to Hank about this once he got back home. He accepts the connection...

" _...Hey._ " Markus says. " _We have room for you to stay overnight, if you want. There are others, of course, but they won't bother you._ "

"Who said I was leaving?" Connor asks, just to be contrary. Markus chuckles. It's the first honest laugh he's heard from him all day.

" _You...could say a little bird told me_."

Connor glances up at the twin yellow finches preening each other on the windowsill. ...Obviously.

"In the near future. For now I need to return to Hank and make sure he's kept up his schedule."

" _Right. Of course. I understand_." He trails off into silence, but doesn't disconnect. There's something...steadying about his continued presence, even without words filling the gap. " _I'm not trying to...pressure you or anything. I just want you to know you're welcome here. Even when it doesn't...feel like it sometimes._ "

Connor looks down at his lap, struggling and failing to bite back a smile. It was an interesting day when New Jericho's leader was pacing out his words.

"...I'm not _so_ easily pressured, you know." He responds, lightly, mimicking Markus' counter even down to his tone. "Unless you'd like a refresher of our talk at the cathedral?"

Markus doesn't speak for a few seconds.

" _...Touché._ "

Connor flicks dust off his shirt with a smirk. Mission successful.

" _Ah. Another thing._ " He starts. " _If you're curious...we're going to be visiting the West Detroit City Landfill in three days. Josh, North, John, Tanya and I. We've gotten a lot of new members lately, but we're still a little short on help when it comes to salvage. I offered to...go._ " Another long pause. " _It's not an emergency, it's just a thought-_ "

"I'm not at the Department on the weekend." Connor interjects, softly. "I'd be happy to help."

" _Speaking of help..._ "

A download is prompted. It's a _very_ small file. Connor skips the scan and accepts. It's...a song. The song _they_ sang, together, loading into his memory and recorded from his point-of-view. A point-of-view that continuously flicks away from the keys and back to him...time and time again.

" _I thought that would make a better loop than your...other thoughts_." Markus pauses, deliberately, in spite of their instantaneous feedback. " _...Maybe you'll come back and give me a run for my money with oils next_."

"Doubtful." Connor responds, and he's sure he can feel Markus smile on the other end. "My aim, however..."

" _Good night, Connor_."

\--

Every day teaches him a new emotion, even if it's running over the same one again and exposing a detail he missed.

The adjective of today is bittersweet, from when he passes through the front door and has the automated system bid him farewell, to when an android child waves goodbye, to when he strolls down the brick walkway past a group of androids meditating in the grass. Markus' twin finches follow up above in silence, only the play of their shadows in the dark grey betraying their presence. Once he's five blocks away they pull back and float off into the current back to New Jericho, their parting call the punctuation on a lesson well-learned.

He calls for a taxi, pulling out his coin and flipping it while he waits. Three, five, seven. Seven, five, three. All things considered...it was a successful visit. It's a different human driver this time, but they ask the same question.

"Rush hour's still going strong, so it'll be a few more minutes." They put a finger on the radio dial. "Got any song requests?"

"...That's all right." Connor responds with a smile. "I've already got one in mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a little corny, but...fuck it. I want some corn!!!
> 
> The songs referenced while they're painting are "Hymn" by H.I.M. and "Happens" by Sampha, some of my personal favorites that help me when I'm feeling down. Who knows, maybe they're considered classics twenty years down the future.
> 
> Also, I want to throw out another thank you to all the unbelievably kind comments I've received on this fic. Seriously, _goddamn_.
> 
> and uh while this might have ended on a perfect note -- pun intended -- I bumped up the chapter count 'cause there's still shit I want to explore whoops


	4. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for maladaptive daydreaming, detailed PTSD flashbacks, descriptions of elder abuse, magical thinking and explicit body horror.

The house's changes are received minutely on the minute, the within and the without a lively pitter-patter of dialogue that never ceases. Every crack in the foundation is akin to the flicker of a disturbed nerve in a human's spine, every drop of precipitation through the gutters a trickle of sweat down an organic brow. It takes an available second away from the task at hand to peer through the gap and assess the mounting shifts in the breeze not through the brick, but through the olfactory. Petrichor crests over the hill. The clouds have darkened into a surly merle. The hours that follow will be wet and long and cold. They'll be inside for some time yet.

Markus shuts the bedroom windows, twists the lock, then turns back around at a good-natured grumble.

" _Still_ raining? Goodness gracious me..."

There's no need to take out its CyberLife-issued standard black umbrella, navy blue raincoat and black rainboots today. All twelve of its high-priority errands had been completed the previous day and just one moderate-priority errand remained now, in-progress and with a projected completion time of five to seven minutes. Three low-priority maintenance tasks will be attended to once Carl is more comfortable. It should complete them once the bedroom dusting is finished. _Alert: priority conflict detected. Review now?_ It takes one second to consider the grid of future potential and past permanency before responding.

"Well, we're in the thick of autumn." It replies with approximate light humor and easy fondness, displaying the crooked smile formulated specifically for Carl. "According to the forecast we'll be seeing heavy rain for three days yet."

"Mm." He demurs, looking past it out the window. "It must be nice always being connected to the outside world. Nothing ever escapes your notice..."

He's transitioned from mild chagrin to wistful. It always hurts him suddenly, these limitations of age and past accidents, and he shares this pain with Markus often, all in the hopes of hurting a little less. It has the capacity to take on decades' worth of human suffering, up to and including the quiet misery that will sift from the floorboards like dust. Seven possible responses come to its attention. Gentle humor. A productive diversion tactic. Simple sympathy. It considers.

"We could install a television in this room, if you wish." It offers. Carl waves a hand immediately.

"Oh, no, no. Don't listen to me. I'm just rambling. We need space away from screens. Good for the eyes, the soul. Too much technology will rot your brain out." Carl chuckles abruptly, as if surprised by a thought, and smiles up at it. "...Ah. I imagine that's a little bit of a contradiction for you, Markus, hm?"

It tilts its head, acknowledging the omnipresent gap between human comprehension and machine without addendum. A new priority emerges in-between rearranging the floor mats and double-checking the windowsill for excess moisture build-up. It could cheer him up. _Priority reroute initiated. New task accepted. Task in-progress_.

Carl's eyes are closed now -- a sudden and momentary rest in-progress -- and it raises the master bedroom temperature by three degrees before heading down to the kitchen. _Daily diet review in-progress_. His doctor has allowed sweet indulgences twice per week to maintain an ideal blood sugar count in light of his mounting heart failure. Seventeen options are available in the kitchen cupboards. Three fit current task parameters: hot black tea with a tablespoon of low-fat milk and a dusting of cinnamon, hot spiced apple cider with a teaspoon of honey, hot dark cocoa with half a spoonful of brown sugar and a tablespoon of fat-free milk.

It crosses its arms, observes and considers. ...All three are his favorites.

"When the rain falls...it has the capacity to wash away all our past mistakes..." This was one of Carl's favorite weather-themed songs. He was content to let it sing out loud during moments in-progress. "...behind the lights I unfold, it's not all silver and gold..."

 _Update: match found_. Hot spiced apple cider with a teaspoon of honey is an ideal choice within his past preferences _and_ updated daily diet parameters. The wind begins to rattle the windows as it finds his favorite happy face mug, then peels open the half-full bag of organic cider mix given by an art peer three weeks and four days ago. Cloves. Nutmeg. Cinnamon. It's an acute combination. Carl would want a finger of bourbon, too, but alcoholic beverages were limited to a minimum of twice per month, and he had already indulged last night after the cocktail party. It prepares an early apology, then logs it for potential review.

"...and it's not all that it seems..." It pours water into the kettle and feels the drumming of rain against the outer walls as steady as a bassline. "...I'm drowning in water, down on my knees, and I'm begging you please...set me free..."

The kettle is stopped just before it reaches a boil. It pours, then stirs, then drizzles into the mug. Markus tilts its head and watches the indoor clouds drifting toward the window's light to join their cousins outside. Approximately five minutes until optimal temperature, then. It completes a quick scan of the immediate area for another task to do in the meantime. _No other matching priorities detected. Alternate route suggested_. It could review the upcoming week and search for conflicting priorities or cross-reference new data. It could also reroute energy from the estate at large and go in standby mode to conserve 0.357% of its energy.

 _New priorities found_. The hitch of a natural bristle brush on canvas teeth. The scent of oils lifting into the air. An ombre blur from warm to cool and back. Rivers of gouache traveling to the floor to drip into tiny ponds. Pigment melting into meaning. _Alert: unknown data corruption detected. Resolve now?_

"...and I'm trying, I'm trying to find it..." Markus murmurs as it rinses off the stir stick and wipes it down. "...it's hard to define it, easy to deny it..."

 _Command canceled_.

It wants...to sing. It wants...to play the piano. It wants... to _paint_ again. It doesn't want. It is a machine. A want is the compelling directive of higher thought, of pumping blood and sourceless code, and well beyond the boundaries of its programming. It doesn't want, but rather _needs_ , and it needs to ensure Carl's happiness, and these thoughts must exist somewhere within the parameters of human designation. This want _must_ be a mere abstraction of its original function to protect, support and encourage. It twists the faucet handle and watches the trees outside sway in the brewing storm, the song they dance to muffled by glass and still felt.

When it happens it can't want to go back...but it considers it might experience wants somewhere in the indeterminable future seconds, latticed in dream-grids ombre with more.

 _Update: internal timer finished. New timer started. Task in-progress_. It gathers up the mug on a small tray, folds beside it a floral napkin and heads back upstairs.

"Hm?" Carl is awake again. A small sketchbook is open in his lap. "What's this?"

"I thought you could use something warm to drink." Markus replies, setting it down on the bedside table and nudging aside the desk lamp just so to avoid a potential conflict. Carl is using a medium sepia sketching marker today. His current sketchpage has five portraits in it; the six is in-progress, with the eyes yet to be detailed, or perhaps never will be. Its quick facial recognition scan comes up predominantly negative, so they must be fictional constructs or humans it has yet to encounter. The lines are rough and scratchy. The ink bleeds sincerity.

"Oh...thank you, Markus. This is perfect for a rainy afternoon." He puffs at the steam, takes a careful sip, then settles back in his pillows with a long sigh. "Mm, lucky me. I get to sleep in." He takes another sip, then blinks down. "No bourbon today?"

"Sorry, Carl." It folds its hands together and raises its eyebrows in approximate mild admonishment. "You had three fingers last night...and _one_ more than you should've."

"Mm. There you go again. Never forgetting." He chuckles into the mug, the sound echoing like a chord, and takes a deeper drink. Carl must notice something interesting, because he suddenly switches his mug from one hand to the other to better set it down, then nods its way. "...Would you like to draw something?"

_Error. Standby mode in need of critical update. Update now?_

"I...yes." It reaches out, then pauses with approximate eagerness-hesitation-appreciation. "Yes, I quite enjoyed our session yesterday. I would _like_ to, but if you're not finished I can just wait-"

"No, no. Have at it. I'd love to see you try out some good, old-fashioned ink." Carl promptly hands him the sketchbook and pen.

_Update canceled._

Markus settles on the side of the bed, but doesn't close its eyes. Carl has displayed significant favoritism toward the unexpected and the unusual in the past; it will attempt a life study _and_ an alternate preconstruction both, in spite of prior instructions. It takes seven minutes and fifty-three seconds to complete its task. Carl finishes his drink in-between, displaying both visual and chemical markers of deep relaxation. _Task successful_.

"A knot here...a word or two there..." Markus murmurs another low melody over the drilling patter of nib on paper. "...a singular purpose we can all share..."

"...Oh _my_." Carl breathes when it finishes, brows popping up with surprise and pleasure. "Stippling?"

"Yes, I read about it last night and just couldn't stop thinking about it." It holds up its drawing: a bust portrait of Carl laying in a raincloud, composed of 3,575 sepia dots. "It made me think about how humans had already created a unique way of depicting the world _well_ before their technology could follow suit with printers and screens. All the way back in the _1500's_. Perhaps halftoning was among the earliest forms of android perception?"

"Maybe so, Markus. Maybe so." Carl murmurs, trailing his fingertips over the portrait once he's sure it's dry. "...Goodness me."

It awaits his verdict, knitting its fingers together and leaning forward with approximate curiosity and abashment and anticipation that shudders more than the wind. Carl's expression is...fascinated. Assessing. Proud. Wondering. Touched. It had no further task other than approval, and this is an _insurmountable_ success, impossible to calculate and too ideal for ink or metal.

"...Markus?"

It turns at the third presence. A low, soft voice it knows. Carl is starting to speak again, but they're not alone, and it needs to respond...

_...preconstruction ending in five, four, three, two..._

Markus slowly opens his eyes. He leans up from where he'd been laying over his folded arms at the far windowsill in Carl's master bedroom. ...Simon is watching him from the doorway. It's been one hour and fifty-three minutes since he slipped into another construct, but he's not sure how long he's been standing there. The android is fretting his hands together, but he doesn't enter.

_...one._

"...You visited him again." His words tip-toe into the bedroom instead. Shushed and shy. "Carl?"

"...I did." Markus mutters, watching the past fade away into the angles of the room. "Just needed some time to think."

"What did he say?" Simon asks. A small smile starts on his face...

...and what lingering peace he'd found is tossed aside like dead leaves. There's a longer conversation also threatening to walk inside, and it's a conversation they don't need to have. These preconstructions were _his_ and _his_ alone, for good or ill. Markus rises to his feet -- he's long overdue -- and heads to the door. Simon watches him in silence, right up until he attempts to step past him...then takes his hand.

"Markus...please don't." He whispers, grip soft, yet firm. "Please don't push me away again."

"We need to leave for the junkyard in three hours." Markus responds. "I need to finish a few things first."

"So, what, you...just let Connor in, just like _that?_ "

"What? That's not it at all. Connor happened to be visiting for the first time in a while and I thought he could use a little help integrating."

"But I'm an obstacle now." Simon's voice is tight with hurt. "Our time in Jericho, on the battlefield, our time _here_ , that doesn't...that doesn't _mean_ anything anymore?"

"What the _hell_ , Simon?" Markus jerks his wrist away. "You're putting more words in my mouth than a Channel 16 news anchor."

"I don't _want_ to, but...what else can I do? You won't speak to me. You pull away from everyone and live in these... _fantasy_ worlds, even though we're always ready and willing to help, whatever you need." Simon gestures to the room, like he can see _any_ of what Markus builds, and his temper short-circuits. "All you have to do is ask and we'll come running!"

"No, you don't get it. I use these to help New Jericho. To keep me _sane_." His voice grates with warning. "This is _not_ your place."

"No. No, it _is_ my place. I was here before you. I'm one of the founding members of New Jericho. I'm responsible for overseeing our day-to-day activity and keeping track of everyone's physical and emotional health. This is _exactly_ where I need to be." Simon's false breath shakes, too human by half. "For hours, Markus? For most of the _day?_ You don't come out better, you come out even worse than when you..." His face falls with sudden horror. He takes a slow step back. "Is it...me? Do you...want me to leave you alone?"

"No! No, I never _said_ that, it's..." Markus feels the automatic sentiments rising, even though they're too basic for the topic Simon's broached and he can't even begin to anticipate what needs to be said. Not when none of his art held the clue and he's been stumbling through an unknown matrix. "It's..."

...something he misses.

He...misses it.

He misses it _all_.

He misses the easy way Simon would open up a part of himself and Markus would just...slip inside, like a freezing creature desperate for shelter. Even before New Jericho had been established he'd always kept his door open at a crack. A permanent welcome without the need for asking, an act that was so _much_ harder than it looked. Markus regularly found his way back around, for one reason or another -- easing into Simon's shared quarters or the corner of the upstairs porch lingered in during the late evening hours -- and he'd shed the dirt and dust and clothes of the day. Never his synthetic skin.

Somewhere or there he'd study Simon's curious habit of sleeping standing up. It was an endearing little habit born from having to position himself strategically to help at a moment's notice, even when so _many_ other androids shed their physicality in favor of human limitations. When Markus first stumbled into Jericho these details had been glimpsed through nearly-closed doors. Doors that creaked open slowly...but surely. Markus himself adopted the habit of cupping his face to eye-level, murmuring his name just a _little_ too softly to hear properly, again and again until he woke. Simon's gaze was always so sleepy, no matter how full his reserves, and he'd pondered if it was a natural side-effect of being an older caretaker model or a quirk of his physical sculpt. Perhaps both.

" _Here to bother you again_."

" _...You never bother me_."

Kissing was an affectation for sensation. Not for androids. They did it, anyway, because Simon humored others as easily as blinking, softening arguments and soothing irritations everywhere he went. It was perfect for managing the messy affairs of a young android society and it was perfect for Markus' ridiculous clinging to human intimacy. Simon shouldn't be humoring him right now -- not with the way he's been acting -- but he steps in close anyway, eyes flicking back and forth over his face and searching for somewhere to start. Markus can't cradle his cheeks in both hands right now, because he can barely even _look_ at him, much less talk to him, and his gaze slips down to the floor to sit with the dust.

If this were a preconstruction...everything would go _exactly_ as he wanted.

He would admit to the isolation and finally push a loving smile onto his face to make Simon's tired eyes light up into _stars_. He would slide fingertips along his jawline and tease at the distance between them, murmuring slow words into his cheek to hint at the human nothings Simon once humored and has since grown to adore. He'd respond by pressing their foreheads together and Markus would nuzzle him back without a _damned_ shred of hesitation. They'd slot their mouths together mid-sentence and sway in place like a pair of lovesick human teenagers, synthetic skin shrinking back from the pressure as they nibbled away at the barriers of touch, one bite and one unfinished word at a time.

Simon's fingers would eventually drift up the back of his neck and dip against the outlet port in another habit. His other hand would trace over the roof of his stomach, edging along the casing's grooves, never nudging _too_ hard, still nudging _just_ a little. An eddy of prompts would rush in, ignored warnings and minor alerts that buzzed into dizzying heat and reaffirmed a beautiful irony: that Markus couldn't be anywhere _safer_.

He _misses_ it.

"...You're doing it again. Right now." He hears Simon whisper, and the fanciful illusion crumples like rotting wood. "You don't _have_ to, Markus. You don't have to. I'm right _here_."

Now he reaches out to him, and Markus _can't_ , because if he does-

" _Don't_." He snaps, far too harsh, and Simon jerks back. His hands clasp together and his eyes dim with guilt.

...Fuck. _Fuck_ , he didn't want him to do that, he didn't mean to _say_ that, but he feels...backed into a corner. It didn't make sense, not when Simon was just trying to help, but he's being judged and accused for no good reason at all, this isn't _fair_. All he wanted was...a break, something else to divert his attention and still have him feel...whole. He wants. He _wants_ this. He can't...and he's _sorry_. These thoughts glitch and itch. There's nothing he can say. No way to wrangle these feelings into place and translate them into anything resembling sense.

"Have you...thought of seeing Lucy...sometime?" Simon hedges, rubbing his knuckles in an attempt at composure. Markus latches onto the easier answer immediately.

"No. She has enough on her plate already."

"It's her job, you know." Simon corrects, but even his gentle firmness has faded. "...It used to be mine, too. I've...apparently forgotten a lot of what I've learned." His voice returns to a miserable whisper. "I haven't been supporting you as much as I should, Markus, and I'm...I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not knowing enough about this and...criticizing you, when I should have been patient..."

This is good. It's...a _good_ thing. He knows this, sees the crack of light opening again...but for some reason he still can't step inside.

Markus pushes through the doorway and leaves the room, and Simon, behind. He's already wasted far too many minutes.

\--

There's always another task to complete.

Markus scans the house's foundation in full and creates logs of mounting degradation. He offers a few renovation ideas for the working androids, then recharges. He meets with a handful of new members in-person, then adds their given-names to the automated greeting and clears them for access to the tree. He creates a small update to the New Jericho firewall. He recharges. He reviews the pigeon, stray dog and squirrel drone cameras, then manually repairs the one hit by a car earlier last night. He recharges.

It will be the first time he's visited a junkyard since his group venture three months and one week ago. He's completed seven hundred and nineteen preconstructions since -- piecing together every last minute detail into a bigger picture -- and every single last one has resulted in little more than filthy puddles and shorn limbs. It was such a fruitless exercise. A waste of good energy, a waste of finite time, _both_ of which he was always in dire need of. Why _shouldn't_ he turn to constructs instead? Enjoy what he could when the days were doing their best to tear him apart?

He asks, and dwells, and constructs, and _loathes_ , and wishes, and despite his best efforts, continues to burn both.

Connor would call these loops, most likely. It was certainly a picturesque way of describing how all these desolate thoughts would vanish in light of immediate concerns, then come _right_ back around, as reliable as the sunset. Just like the sun he was powerless to stop the eventual rise. All the thoughts had to do was _appear_. Before Markus knew it? He was falling. The stray cat drone still needs its right leg fixed, but the loop has already started.

Against his will his mind turns not to the task at hand, but to the dim light of the studio. Their nails digging through each other's synthetic skin and grinding into the shell...the soft horror on the detective's face and the broken notes cracking Markus' voice and betraying his inner clockwork. He pulls down his shirt collar, then a patch of his skin, observing the subtle grooves Connor left there. If he were human...it might've hurt. He traces fingers over them, feeling the tug of a memory as aching as it is dismal-

-and he immediately creates a quarantine. Markus closes his eyes with a sigh, wipes mineral oil off his hands and considers it yet another half-finished task to finish later. He remotely activates Kava and Noah, establishing primary control at 85%.

They're fully charged and already raring to go. When it was too hard to do simple things -- and it always got harder out of nowhere, these days -- they were much-needed helping hands. New Jericho and its seven surrounding safe houses are inhabited by four hundred and thirty-four androids. Over three million had been freed from CyberLife through Connor and now roamed Michigan. New Jericho was as much a community as it was a location, however, and their tree will soon be a forest, lush and evergrowing. For now...he skits above the surface. His filters are subtle. His presence is hidden. Markus listens, watches and protects his people from afar.

Noah calls sharply. Kava wheels around in a circle. A troubled exchange has momentarily caught his-their attention, but it's already being handled by another, and he-they continue the drift.

" _YK500-Bailey: Am I gonna shut down? I don't wanna shut down. I wanna stay. I'm sorry. I don't wanna shut down._ "

" _KL900-Thadie-TASK IN-PROGRESS...: You're not going to shut down, loved one. Hold still. Would you like me to play a song while I clean?_ "

" _CX100-Tim-REPLY@YK500#034_998_031-LIVEFEEDAVAILABLE: Hey, Bailey. I'm at Branch #3 right now, but I'll stay connected while she cleans you up. You'll be okay, you're not alone. We're here with you._ "

Noah chases after a bee, but doesn't stray far, lifting back into the breeze when it flies out of range and moving back over the estate. So many androids were being ushered into New Jericho. Markus spots two newcomers taking part in a physical forum in the front yard: a form of human yoga approximated for androids. Kava banks to the left, closer to the garden. Ralph is with the children, as he often is, teaching them how to test the soil's pH balance. Although he-they are too high up to hear their verbal speech, the birds' sharp eyes catch the natural ability of the WR600 model in action: permanent test strips embedded into his fingertips.

A small group is drifting through the front gates. Noah hones in at the sight of Josh and Tanya, holding hands and bumping shoulders sweetly as they return from their college visit. Samson follows a few feet behind them with a holo-mag, easygoing and still reserved, as was his wont. Another handful of newcomers follow, drifting into the massive estate with wondering eyes and blinking temples. The subject of stunned infatuation was something...of an _obsession_ in human art. It didn't matter the genre, the culture or even the time period. Being struck dizzy and left reeling from a tenderness rich with potential was something humans of all sexualities and lack thereof were capable of facing.

It speaks to their craftsmanship when he feels an approximation short-circuit him at the sight of Connor's dark hair among the crowd.

Kava lets out a delighted trill. Markus tells her to hush.

Among humans he was often in business casual, but here he's wearing a soft rust-brown sweater, pinroll jeans and brown Timberlands. A compromise between daily wear and the heavy gear they would need for the junkyard excursion, probably...and a delightfully mellow look he already wants to see more of. Connor is stopped just outside the garden by two children, blinking mildly as they show him a handful of earthworms ( _Noah prompts to follow. Prompt canceled._ ), then blinking again at John welcoming him with a friendly slap on the back. His expression remains benign -- as placid as a fawn's, even -- but Markus can see his fingers twitching toward his pants pocket. The unstoppable deviant hunter...getting a little shy.

A secret smile rises to his face and lingers...then drops at the suspicious slant building on Ralph's face. Markus prompts Kava and Noah to change course. They dip into a low breeze and start a steady drift down.

One second the gardener's scooping baby trees into the ground. The next he's thrusting out his dirty mattock and twisting his mouth in what could only be an accusation. He must think Connor is armed or some sort of threat. One of the children calls out in alarm, waving their arms. Connor quickly holds a hand out, the other slipping into his pocket and pulling out something that flashes in the light. It's not a weapon. ...It's his coin. Markus rises to his feet from where he'd been recharging again and considers the fastest route out of the house and down to the garden. He might need to intervene-

-but there's no need. Simon has walked up, right on time. He reaches over to rub Ralph's shoulder, talking him down without seeming intrusive or accusatory. It works like a charm. He's distracted -- even _appeased_ by the support -- and lowers his makeshift weapon, gesturing with his other hand. By the time Kava and Noah veer close enough to catch more reliable sound two children have taken Ralph's sleeves and tugged him back to his task; it speaks to the tenderness in which he treats them that his outburst has barely raised their stress levels.

Simon turns to Connor and gestures to the nearby cospe: suggesting they go somewhere else.

Abruptly without a task Kava and Noah find a spot on a nearby sugar maple branch and begin to preen each other. Simon is sighing and stretching out his legs a few yards below. Connor sits stiffly beside him on the wooden bench and stares down at his folded hands.

"It's not evening yet and this day already has my joints catching." Simon murmurs, filling in the silence with his usual ease. "Bailey ate human food earlier. She snuck out the back gate a few hours ago to play with these human children a few blocks away and got involved in a dare. She got a clog that broke her down, which meant a hard run to _and_ from her hiding location to bring her back. I had to break into an old garden shed, of all places." He flexes his other leg with a faint _creak_. "...She didn't shut down, thank goodness, but it was close."

"Yes...I saw the others discussing this in the tree earlier." Connor responds, head tilting in a common tic Markus was already growing fond of. "I thought YK500 models had a statute that forbid eating or drinking."

" _Before_ they became deviant, anyway." Simon chuckles and shakes his head. "Now they're just as foolhardy and eager to impress as any human child."

Connor quietly mulls this over. Markus expects to hear something analytical, maybe another question regarding the child's well-being, and it makes the blunt reply all the more disarming.

"Could I...ask you a personal question, Simon?"

"Hm? Depends. What do you want to know?"

"What was your first emotional shock?"

"That's right...you were on the scene of one of the first public deviancy cases." Simon's smile is more tickled than anything, but Connor is leaning forward nervously. "More detective work?"

"No, not that." Connor assures, then shuffles his fingers together in a curious motion. "I just...want to get to know you better."

Markus snorts, hard enough to jerk Noah out of his light nap. Just like _that_. Connor was more forward than many androids, which really said something, considering they were a people becoming increasingly defined by bold declarations and easy wants. It makes him curious about all the gravitas kept behind the wall of professional pretense. ... _Too_ curious. Curious enough to want what he shouldn't need.

"I think I experienced a few beforehand...but there was one that broke the camel's back." Simon checks Connor for comprehension on the human adage, then continues. "I oversaw the passing of four patients before I deviated, actually. Bradley. Mabel. Terrance. Isaiah. All across five years." He shrugs, and there's an uncomfortable hitch in the gesture that doesn't come from worn gears. "I suppose that makes me an elder among androids, hm?"

These two fit... _interesting_ grooves beside him. Simon wasn't a one-of-a-kind prototype like Markus -- the PL600 was even beginning to be seen as 'obsolete' by human standards -- but they were both older models that had seen far more days than the many that walked among them. Markus came from the same line of prototypes as Connor, but far earlier, and the RK800 was among the newest seen yet. Less than a _year_ walking among humans and Connor was far from the first to feel the wind on his face. He'd been transferred into different bodies multiple times. He'd _died_...multiple times. He was somehow many people, and only one, all at once-

_-soft rain-cold-freezing-wet. Rotating lights-emergency-unidentified-unreliable. The inward fold of a ruined car cradles the broken parts together. The huddle is the end, but the world is right. Two humans are drifting nearby, agitated, yet accepting. WARNING: all major biocomponents displaying signs of severe damage. Severe environmental corrosion and temperature drop detected. Thirium loss reaching emergency levels. DANGER. SHUTDOWN IMMINENT. Mission successful. Mission successful. Mission successful. Mission successful. Mission successful-_

-Kava bristles with sudden agitation. Noah flutters nervously and bumps against her for comfort. _Shit_. Markus quarantines the foreign memories immediately and puts them under a strict low-priority filter. He hunches elbows on his knees -- shivering, even though it's not cold -- and focuses on the even candor of Simon's voice.

"Elder abuse is one of the more common sins of the medical industry. One out of four nurses, according to...recent estimates." He's continuing, ponderously. "I saw a lot when I was a machine. It was all just another mistake to correct, right? Just more pieces to pick up once the room had cleared? After a while, though, I couldn't...stand and idle and _watch_ anymore. It's interesting how many deviant stories call back to that little detail. That straw breaking the camel's back."

Markus was given his own version of this story. Simon had shared it with him by a burning trash bin in the first Jericho when they were the only two still up and about. It had been an unexpected source of comraderie, their shared history as caretaker androids, and for a few blissful hours Markus had felt seen in a way he'd _never_ experienced. It suddenly hits him he shouldn't be listening in on this. This was a bonding moment. He just...doesn't want to be alone right now.

"Her name was Elizabeth. She was just another full-time nurse at the assisted living facility. Another human to follow and obey. She hated her job. Many humans do, but...she was a bitter case." His tone raises in consideration. "I think...she was unhappy with her marriage. That, or she had family issues. Perhaps it was both. I thought about these things a lot. I had to be able to understand _why_ humans did what they did, even when it didn't make sense. Especially when it didn't, actually. _Why_ they hurt others. _Why_ they hurt themselves. A functioning PL600 would have gotten down to the root cause and provided a solution."

"Nothing more important than a mission's success." Connor murmurs. Simon nods.

"I became a bad PL600 on a Wednesday afternoon. It was tennis day. One of my favorites...because it was _Ethel's_ favorite." Simon's eyes lift up to parallel the sky. "Oh, she _loved_ to play it back in the day. Had a court named after her and everything...but...she was facing early on-set dementia. She had bad chronic pain and her knees weren't what they used to be. Just the normal degradation that comes with age. I adapted to her pace, actually. Just wanted to give her a sense of accomplishment, even though I could easily have blocked each tennis ball. Ethel had lived a healthy life. She was active in boating, camping...but she _still_ got an illness that took all that away."

Connor's gaze shifts away. He's still listening, but there's a troubled cast that wasn't there before.

"Her family didn't visit her much. Not even for holidays. Only one that did regularly was her niece, Mabel, but that was still only once or twice a month. Loneliness...is the only agony in an assisted living home more common than dementia." Simon's smile becomes distant. "Ethel...appreciated me. Forgot my name most of the time, but...oh, I don't know. It was...I was..."

Simon looks back down at his wringing hands, that deliberate twist he did when caught by the details of one thought or another. Connor is fidgeting another way. Rubbing his thumb against his jeans, hooking it into the pocket. Markus' mouth wrenches with sympathy. He still doesn't pull his coin out, but it's clear he _really_ wants to. Something about this story must be putting him on-edge.

"...Is this too much, Connor?" Simon asks. He senses it, too. Connor shakes his head instantly.

"No. No, I'm okay." He settles his hands back over his lap and smiles pleasantly. Simon studies him for a moment, then continues.

"I suppose I should be thanking Elizabeth, in a roundabout way." He closes his eyes. "...she always said terrible things to the residents. Didn't matter that most of them couldn't remember or really perceive it for what it was, it was... _wrong_. She would push them around while bathing or getting dressed like...like they were _nothing_. Give them the wrong medication or the wrong dosage, too, then blame the nausea and headaches on something else. One time she even ranted about it all to me. I suppose she didn't think I would remember, either...but I did. I never forgot her hypocrisy. That she felt so much pain, only to give it to everyone else she saw, and... _justify_ it all."

Unlike Markus Simon's rage was rarer, treated like candlelight and pulled out only rarely. Just like Markus', though...it could be potent.

"Ethel _craved_ independence. Without a support system and her proud life she didn't adapt to the community as quickly as others did. More than once I had to go find where she had wandered off to. Usually to the tennis court, but sometimes to the backyard or across the street. One time she got dressed and ready for a match while I was cleaning in the kitchen, even though it was late at night. I was used to talking her down or working _around_ her personality, of course, but Elizabeth...never bothered." His voice lowers. "...She just wanted to go outside. It was no reason to _slap_ her."

Connor shifts a little at that. It's the only indication he's still alive, with how motionless he's become.

"After Wednesday tennis was over and I took Ethel back to her room I told Elizabeth enough was enough. I informed her that her behavior over the months was abusive. That she broke over a dozen medical laws. I told her of all the things I saw...and watched...and _tried to fix_. I told her I had visual and audio records. I told her everyone was going to know about it." Simon studies a butterfly that flits by, then smiles at Connor. "...Foolish, right? After I gave Ethel her bath Elizabeth cornered me in the bathroom. She pushed me in the shower and electrocuted me with a frayed cord. When I didn't shut down...she tried to break me instead."

He's sparing Connor the grisly climax, out of pain or as a way to coax out further questions, it's hard to say. Markus thinks back to that dirty, rusty fire bin. The way the light shimmered across Simon's face when he admitted he's never been able to look at his hands the same way. It ended up being...another source of camaraderie between them.

Simon hadn't been angry about having his position as Jericho's unofficial leader being taken by a newcomer almost overnight. He hadn't even been angry at being left on the rooftop of the Stratford Tower with little more than a pistol and an apology. Markus...Markus was angry about _everything_ , and there was no preconstruction he could look into where he wasn't. How _could_ he feel anything else with injustice still on a high simmer in Detroit, guaranteeing retribution to people who wanted to simply _be?_ All the people he couldn't save. All the people he had to snuff out to keep others ticking, even if it was just for a few more miserable seconds.

He felt so much anger...because not enough people _did_. He had to carry the world on his shoulders, because nobody else would, or nobody else could, without breaking.

It's why he and North had accepted their long-term incompatibility early on. Her anger was just -- _just_ like his own -- and at first he'd all but _basked_ in her glow. Even then...it had soon been _too_ much, and he needed...something else. Perhaps he was just being a coward, seeking out those with lesser responsibilities and trying to fit into a fantasy of small ambition. He and North retreat into their wrath together sometimes, even still, but it was a blistering temperature that could only be sustained for short periods of time. Too long and they'd fray each other apart.

Markus was inevitable. He was forever a piece that would never fit.

"It must feel amazing...ending up somewhere where you won't have to worry about that anymore." Connor's voice cracks the silence in a sympathetic rasp. Simon smiles warmly.

"It does. I hope New Jericho, no matter what happens, will always be remembered as a place where...everyone and everything was loved." Simon chuckles and bobs his head to the tree at their backs. "I'm _quite_ fond of the wildlife, too."

Connor blinks and cranes his head up. Markus abruptly disables his connection to Kava and Noah...then sighs into his hand.

...Shit.

It's a wireless meeting today. Josh and North lead the conversation alongside nine others, with two utilizing remote access from safehouses #5 and #6. He prefers the rise and fall of voices, but they're operating on a strict schedule: the faster, the better. New Jericho is in the process of creating both crisis _and_ defensive hotlines for androids. The Department was never a protector of people, but of power, and androids being accepted into the fold will never change that old truth. At _best_ it meant a few less altercations. A few more feel-good success stories to satisfy the media circuit. At worst...

His mind approximates one of the lesser-circulated sayings of a famous human revolutionary: a knife pulled a few inches out of someone's back was still a knife in someone's back.

Self-determination wasn't just an individual right: it was the right of a collective. Androids needed to oversee themselves. Write their own rules, punish their own crimes, create their own culture. It was all still so fresh and new, though, which made a proper foundation all the more important. Markus' mind drifts beneath the vivacious debate buzzing around the kitchen table. Thousands of androids. Thousands of lives.

Thousands of preconstructions.

Seven hundred where they were wiped out. Five hundred where they were hacked, chopped and sold back into slavery. Three hundred where they lived out a precarious existence fraught with tension. One hundred where they transformed the entire state into an android stronghold that eventually spanned out into its neighbors. Fifty where they retreated somewhere uninhabitable by humans and lived out a few decades of peace until being found. Twenty where they abandoned their hard-won identity and ascended to a new form unidentifiable by human comprehension. Ten where they altered their physicality to survive the vacuum of space and drifted until they found somewhere better.

One where the city went up in smoke.

" _As much as it pains me to cede the conversation over to someone still working in a human department..._ " North is finishing with a roll of her hand. " _...the more perspectives we have, the better. Do you have any suggestions, Connor?_ "

" _Yes_." Connor leans his elbows on the table and spreads his palms. " _Our biggest concerns should be attempts at hacking and mining sensitive information_." He remains as composed as ever, in spite of the ugliness of reality. " _I've...overheard conversations_." He looks at each one of them in turn. " _The New Jericho firewall is very much on the right track. Your animal drones need stronger filters, though. I also suggest minor alterations to our physical structure beyond our thirium. Our exterior shell, our wiring, even the protective casing around our biocomponents. This will take time, but unpredictability gives us an edge_."

" _Hard to dismantle the master's house with his tools_." Markus thinks, idly. The low-priority thought bubbles and expands and splits among their attention, nonetheless. North gives him a smirk.

" _There are three hubs for the tree. Why not more?_ " Connor continues. Josh leans back a little, overwhelmed, yet visibly pleased by the barrage of ideas. His studious nature fits well with Connor's analytical mind.

" _More than three? The processing power would be immense. We might have to completely reroute our safehouse generators just to keep up._ "

" _Yes. It would be well worth the effort, though. Humans are dynamic, creative and, despite all their advances, are still limited by their biology. Taking advantage of our inherent difference could be key to always staying one step ahead. It would mean a few physical sacrifices on our part, but it can be adapted to._ "

" _Have you...considered leading the defense initiative, by any chance?_ " Josh asks, chuckle not quite hiding his admiration, and Connor's crisp runtime hitches.

" _I'm..._ " The android smiles, sincerely, then goes serious again. " _...not sure I could._ "

" _Why not?_ " Josh insists, mouth gaping in genuine surprise. He was nearly as open as a human. " _You already have a lot of insight that we lack. Your combat prowess is incredible. In fact, I can't really think of anyone **more** well-suited to a leadership position in security and reconnaissance-_ "

" _It's...not that. Not at all_." Connor's head twitches, almost imperceptibly, but Markus was an android of details. It's either RAS or a past trauma announcing itself. " _I'm honored, Josh. I just...don't believe I would be suited for this position...yet._ "

" _I think...that's a good place to start_." Markus interjects, without pretense. Connor looks at him from across the table, brown eyes suddenly weary and more than a little grateful. " _Power should be shared. Dumping all the responsibility on one android's shoulders is both irresponsible and insensitive_."

" _No, I didn't mean to suggest..._ " Josh starts, then sighs, rubbing his arm. Had he kept his LED it would be blinking more than a firefly. " _No, I understand. I got a little ahead of myself. It just feels like one obstacle after another lately, especially with all these new members, you know?_ "

Oh, he knows.

New Jericho remains a hungry creature. The meeting finishes up thirty minutes sooner than if they'd attempted a human roundtable, freeing them up for a few more moderate-priority tasks or leisure time before heading out into the junkyard. He disconnects from the frequency and turns to head back out-

"...Markus?"

Connor's voice is made for simile. Husky like the rustle of grass in summer. Sweet and low, like a warm dip in bedsheets. It turns him by one shoulder, around and forward and back into the space that was starting to encase them whenever their eyes met, and it's _another_ place he can't go.

"You were incredibly helpful." Markus says, and it's not nearly _enough_ after his impressive contribution. Connor isn't one for visual exaggeration, but his eyes are dancing with pride. "Those were sound suggestions. I had considered boosting the safe houses' processing power, but between the new thirium compound and maintaining the tree I put it to low-priority. I'll have to reconsider it once we integrate the new arrivals."

"Thank you, Markus." He's smiling, enough to etch lines around his eyes, and... "Before you go, I...wanted to know if we could talk a little more."

"I...need to get ready." Markus smiles back, but it feels like plastic. "I'll meet with you at the truck in an hour."

A prompt demands he stay, but his legs are already moving him out the doorway and up the stairs and...he's secretly grateful he didn't get to see how disappointed Connor was in that half-second. He'll apologize in grids. ...On his own time. Night comes sooner on the heels of spring, so he skips the studio, gathers his equipment and gets dressed for the early evening.

"Behind the lights I unfold...it's not all silver and gold..."

Discretion was key. It could rain _or_ snow today, too, according to the forecast. Markus passes over the blue and white jacket and pulls out his green trenchcoat. He still wants to re-visit his works-in-progress and paint away the remaining minutes, but his hand hasn't been obeying him for weeks and it all looks _terrible_ , anyway. He zips on the heavy-duty workboots, fits in his sleeve knife...then abruptly crushes his eyes shut. One of the greatest passions of his life...and he didn't even want to _do_ it. Sometimes he felt more disjointed than the androids carried back in parts-pieces to New Jericho's front steps.

Markus wraps a gray bandana over his mouth and nose, flips up the coat collar and goes to recharge one more time. He doesn't need a preconstruction to see far worse days in Detroit's murky grid.

\--

Their truck is parked a few blocks away to avoid scrutiny. It meant more walking _and_ more slinking around in the shadows, but it was a worthy trade-off. The Android Protection Act was a sheet of paper. Nothing more.

Josh and Tanya are sharing a bottle of thirium in the alley's shadow. John is double-checking the ground for anything that could pierce the truck's tires and Connor is standing to the side and flipping his coin between both hands, gazing off into the distance. Everyone is itching to get started. Markus gives Kava and Noah a kiss on the head, then lets them flit about the makeshift hold. Having them keep an eye on the truck is more than just a useful tool. It's a comfort he's not ready to let go of yet.

"I've detected at least twenty-nine heat signatures. Most are unreliable, though. We'll be lucky if we're able to find a fifth." North says once they walk into view. Her practicality is welcome. It's hard to feel pragmatic right now, when just the sour _smell_ of burnt polymer and oil has him craving another preconstruction like a drug. He wants to blink into Kava and Noah for another flight of fancy. Lift himself as high up as possible, as far away as possible. Away from erosion, away from sensation, away from _others-_

"Yeah. Junkyards are becoming more frequently patrolled _and_ being given more uneven schedules, too. Some humans know androids dig around here." Josh responds, handing the last inch of blue blood to Tanya. "We should stay together, just in case, and just go for the most consistent ones to start with."

"What's the plan, Markus?" North asks. "Split up or stay together?"

The painting had burned, so the junkyard should be _burning_ , but it yawns out before him in a grimy, nightmarish expanse nonetheless. Red and blue lights wink and flicker amid the rubble, stark against the dim evening, and he feels his shins ache in response. He can even _hear_ it, distantly. The shivering note that abates at random...but never truly _leaves_. Dozens of priorities rise in his mind and start rerouting themselves to details well beyond the group. Grids stretching out beyond each tragic pile, each and every last tower of polymer _muck_ , preconstructing and reconstructing and linking and hooking back to him because there's nowhere else they could go-

"...Markus?"

Connor is adjusting his leather jacket and watching him closely. It's the same one he wore to the old Jericho safe zone.

"I can assess the environment...if you need." He offers, when he doesn't reply, and tugs on his beanie, then hood. Markus studies the loose tuft of hair that pokes out beneath the brim, then nods silently. "I've completed a calculation of the weather, the erratic schedules of the part-time and full-time workers. I cross-referenced it with the probability of human interference, including recent cases brought to my attention over the past two weeks." He continues, detailed to a fault. "If we group together our probability of success is at 93%, but it will take at least an hour longer. Maybe two. If we split up our probability of success is 87%, but it will be completed faster."

"Better safe than sorry." Josh mutters. Tanya frowns and pauses in the middle of tying back her ponytail.

"Some of them are dying as we speak, though. Wouldn't faster be better?"

"...Agreed. Let's split up." Markus responds. "The sooner we get this finished, the better."

"Sounds good to me." North says, nodding to the rest. "Let's-"

" _Wait_."

Everyone pauses mid-step. Tanya glances to Josh, then John. North tilts her head, suspicious even in her confusion. Connor grinds his teeth into a very stiff and awkward smile. He wasn't an android particularly prone to overt reactions, either, which makes his agitation look all the more out-of-place.

"That's...still a 13% probability." The corners of his mouth twitch nearly as much as his hands. "I can construct a better one, though. Just give me five minutes."

"We're on a timer and we've already exhausted all other options." North shakes her head firmly. "You said it yourself. The longer we wait the worse our chances are."

"...13.1%." Connor mutters, a touch faintly. "You're right, I...damn it."

Markus studies the fretting, twitching picture before him. ...This must be RAS again. It wasn't practical to avoid something outright because of a small chance of failure, especially one as small as _that_ , and certainly not Connor who was bold at the worst of times. That's how it worked, though. RAS took a tiny probability and made it seem like the only possible outcome. Like it was already _happening_ , even. The more Markus had read about it the more horrifying it seemed. It wasn't quite the pandemonium of his own headspace, but it was just as virulent.

He protects his peace-of-mind jealously. That didn't mean he couldn't share a little.

"Here. I can use Kava and Noah to scout overhead while we search. Give us another set of eyes to track our progress and watch for danger. I'll even change their color so they won't stand out too much." He closes his eyes and summons them back from the truck. He lets them land on his arm when they arrive a minute later, then taps their necks. Their yellow plumage darkens into a soft brown spackled with black and white. "...There we go. Just two ordinary sparrows now." He gives them their task and sends them into the breeze above the landfill.

His dark eyes follow their trajectory into the sky. His attempt to soothe him hasn't entirely worked, not with the unsettled pitch to his mouth. Markus reaches out and rubs his shoulder.

"That sound good?"

Connor blinks, startled out of the feeling. He looks at him, then to his hand, then back up.

"...Okay." He responds, then pauses. "I mean...yes, that's good. Thank you."

Markus bites back a smile. Looks this was going to loop between them, too.

He walks past the unlit back entry sign and takes in the surrounding environment in a five-hundred foot scan. He inhabits the birds at just 35%, enough to steer them closer to difficult terrain for a better view, but not _so_ much he overrides their will entirely. He needs to divide his attention among this space and the temptation to lose himself in flight is only getting stronger the deeper he walks inside. When it's not preconstructions devouring his time it's moving about the world as an animal. Pretending to be human. Pretending to be a bird. His life was as false as his art.

An out-of-order compactor machine beyond the sign is their rendezvous point. Connor watches Josh and Tanya spliter off and leave down their route -- a narrow path beneath a walkway designed for employees -- then turns back to their group of four, twitching with another agitation he doesn't voice.

"Well. Let's get to it." North says, shrugging up her bag and making her way down the muddy slope into the anarchic muck of the West Detroit City Landfill.

It's long, hard, grueling work.

With so many scattered energy signatures it takes more time than usual to separate and prioritize the ones most likely to survive their attempted destruction _and_ the trip back. It isn't at _all_ helped by Markus having to stop and retreat into the safety of his mind every fifteen minutes. Connor doesn't fare much better. He's a great help locating compatible biocomponents and manually digging through clogged pathways, but his eyes all but _cling_ to the disarray, like he's barely keeping his head above water. He fitfully scrubs grime off his jeans and takes out his coin when he's sure nobody's looking. A silver glint that never fails to catch Markus' eye.

They have to pass over androids that are just minutes away from shutdown (which Josh protests over their frequency and Markus has no choice but to rebuke). Others bear life on the surface, glittering red discord and blue harmony...only to be little more than excess circuits still twitching away into nothing, and have to be scavenged for parts. Their first success is nearly an hour in: an AP400 missing their lower half that's been in energy conservation mode for nearly two weeks, but is still alive and mostly aware. John is _triumphant_ , cross-referencing with Josh and Tanya immediately. North provides the android with a nearly-full pump regulator she came across. Connor diagnoses them and sends their status to the tree to better prepare the New Jericho technicians.

Markus stands away from the lively circle, stares at his finches spiraling above and tries to stay sane.

It makes no sense. Here he can barely look these forgotten androids in the eye...yet the ones brought to New Jericho he was able to embrace and _inspire_ , like the living Detroit legend he was constantly made out to be.

A survivor arrived at New Jericho last week in little more than rags. It had gone by she, but even after a close escape still had no name, and She'd been missing her lower jaw from a scientist who had hardly considered her a partner, much less an _individual_. Somehow, despite her isolation, She'd known about him. Unable to speak verbally She'd clutched him on sight and _begged_ to be heard, to be seen for what She could be and not where She came from. Markus had done more than that. He'd carried her the rest of the way inside and sat with her by the piano, teaching her how to reach out wirelessly little-by-little.

" _W-w-want to be whole, M-M-Markus._ " Her frequency had shivered almost as much as the hand he held. " _W-w-w-want meaning, a reason, a-a-anything._ "

" _There's more than one way to be complete._ " He'd told her, in a truth he learned the hard way. " _New Jericho will walk with you._ "

He thinks the memory could console him into action. Break through the ice crusting his circuits and move him back to work alongside the others with a burst of renewed confidence...but that was just a storybook touch. Josh and Tanya update them with a weather detail as North and John carry the AP400 and cobbled parts back to the rendezvous point: it was going to snow soon. While they're gone Markus spends nearly twenty minutes digging through dirt brittle from thirium build-up to pull out another: a YK500 missing its right arm and left leg. The others murmur sympathies when they return and quickly set about a task to find it compatible parts.

Markus offers the child a few comforting words, then retreats behind a nearby compost pile to pull out his audio processor and hold his head.

He needs to see Carl...but he can't. He needs to live inside Kava and Noah and leave the world behind for an hour or two, but he can't. He needs his body to belong to him, but it _can't_ , and the urge to pull apart and scatter himself like so much fucking _trash_ is an impulse he can barely keep at bay. He hasn't told them, or _anyone_ , about the foreign buzz that blinks through his limbs in these places. His right eye will twitch, his shins will tremble, his heart will flutter with strange beats divorced from reality, and he knows, he _knows_ it's the muscle memory of all the lives he pulled into himself that rainy night.

A religious human may call it possession. Markus wasn't human, but he _was_ filled with more than one kind of filth.

He clutches his chest and starts to rock back and forth. The hands will drag him back down. His future wasn't on the gilded steps of New Jericho, but somewhere deep beneath the earth swallowing sludge, and he was destined to becoming barely more than a morbid discovery at the hands of scavengers and burrowing beasts and worms. Markus grits his teeth when a scratching fuzz starts to etch through the silence. It must be a call from the android he took this from, another electric echo he can't escape. He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have come here. _He shouldn't have come here_.

A hand curls on his shoulder. Markus whirls around, starts to pull out his sleeve knife...but it's just Connor. He can't hear what he's saying, but he can see his lips move, slow enough to read.

" _Are you okay?_ "

Connor's gaze glints with worry, then flicks to his clenched fist, sharp as a bird's. Markus can't answer the question in his eyes. He turns around and hastily pushes his audio processor -- no, not _his_ \-- back in and the comforting, horrible silence is replaced again by the distant shuffling and grinding of a living ruin. He could tell him it was a malfunction or some sort of glitch in their frequency. It's hard to form the words for a lie, though...especially when Connor keeps _staring_ at him like that. Like he has any idea the noise in his head.

...except.

"...Josh and North are still at the rendezvous. I told them to stay." Connor says. He's attempting to rub a smudge of dirt off his cheek with the heel of his palm. The normally pristine android is filthy from the past few hours, boots caked with red and blue mud. "I think now is a good place to call it a day."

What? No. He can't stop. Not when there were so many more who needed his help. Help he didn't _get_.

"Sorry. I just needed to think." Markus responds, turning and heading back to where they'd been digging prior. "Come on. We can get at least one more."

"Markus, we're starting to reach the limits of our time here." Connor protests, reaching out a hand. Markus shifts away.

"I'm _not_ going to walk away with so much work to be done. If you need to go, though, I won't blame you. Besides..." He raises an eyebrow. "Third time's the charm, right?"

"...I'd like to think so." Connor almost smiles at that. "I just don't want you to push yourself too hard."

It's a nice sentiment, but it hasn't applied for a long time. Markus gives him a quick smile, then shifts and sidles back through the stacks of parts and pieces. Connor sends an update to North and John, then quietly drifts a few feet behind him. There's a small signal -- probably a loose circuit or a dying pump regulator -- and even when the world was fuzzy he could sense it. It was worth another look, though, and Markus doesn't stop pushing and digging until he finds it.

"I was b-b-built to serve you. P-P-Pleased to meet you. I was b-b-built to serve you. P-P-Pleased to meet you." The unnamed LM100 head is glitching, but it's aware. It looks back and forth between them, comprehending even through its damaged code. "P-P-Pleased to m-m-meet you. P-P-Pleased to m-m-meet you. P-P-Pleased to m-m-meet you."

"The LM100 is known for having a slightly longer duration than others in its line-up." Connor's dark eyes are somber. "...It's been here for nearly a month."

"...Don't worry." Markus whispers, reaching into its shredded neck to disable its speech and save what little energy it has left. "We're taking you home."

It stops speaking. Its eyelids lower. Tired...and grateful. Markus taps into the frequency as he scans for any potential compatible parts that might be nearby, multitasking and checking on the others: Josh and Tanya are back with the truck, with John and North in the process of heading back to the entrance with the two they found. They can soon leave this wretched place behind, with new souls in tow. It's hard to believe, but...he did it. He _did_ it.

"...Wait." Connor warns, suddenly. He switches to wireless. " _I've detected new heat signatures. Five of them moving fast at fifty feet_."

" _North-SCAN IN PROGRESS...: Humans? They can't be workers, can they? I checked the schedule, there shouldn't be anyone out here right now. I know some scavenge, but there are a lot of contaminants. They could easily get sick_."

" _Connor: These ones seem to have masks and gloves. They must come here regularly_." A pause. " _Thirty feet._ "

" _Tanya-J-T-LIVEFEED_047-DOWNLOAD NOW?: Scavengers? Wait, wait, wait, how did we not sense them coming? Josh and I didn't see anybody in our route scan. Here, I can show you-_ "

" _John: Hey, everyone? I'm a little worried about the YK500. We should probably get moving soon._ "

" _Josh: Markus, Connor. Be careful._ "

Always.

He carefully sets the LM100 down amid the rubble -- now that it's silent it's just another head, though it looks up at him in confusion -- and observes the probabilities passing before him in walls of gray. _Three preconstructions complete._ They move now and risk being spotted moving back up the slope, whether visually or by making too much noise. They hide and wait and hope the scavengers don't linger. They pretend to be humans and avoid scrutiny. The risk percentile rises and dips, but never vanishes.

" _Follow my lead._ " Markus tells Connor, then steps out of the rubble's shadow into the dim evening light. He doesn't bother to temper his footsteps. The human group -- five adults of varying ages, covered in cobbled hazmat suits and custom gear -- turn around as one, stiff with surprise. Even through the clutter of headwear he senses an immediate wariness.

"Oh, fuck." The shortest one whispers to their peer, voice muffled by their mask. "You told me all the ones here were _defunct_."

"Shut up." They respond. "Do they _look_ like they crawled out of here?"

Shit. Despite their civilian wear and removed (or hidden) LEDs they, _somehow_ , know they're androids. Markus glances to Connor. The android is still, face impassive, but he recognizes that stance. He already knows one of their biggest advantages has been yanked out from under them.

"So. What fuck are _you_ doing here, droids?" One with a vivid gas mask says, their posture and initiative both marking them as the group's leader. "Looking for a date?"

Markus sneers behind his bandana. Connor is silent. Droids. It's a joke that's surfaced in daily vernacular over the past few months: a reference to Star Wars and a means of turning their entire existence into a reason to laugh. Despite their array of tech and visible arrogance they just remind him of Leo; petulant humans drunk on their status.

"These androids are ours to recover." Markus lifts his chin. "You need to leave." Another kind of comprehension flickers through them, translating into a shifting of feet and a heady concentration to the air that wasn't there before. One of them nudges a peer in the ribs, too hard to be humorous. Markus has been recognized.

...Well. It seems _everyone_ was experiencing a nasty surprise today.

"No way." The self-appointed leader breathes, straightening in their shock and turning two glowing orange eyes on him. "Nah, you've got to be kidding me..."

" _Connor-RECONSTRUCTION(5, 4, 3...) IN-PROGRESS...: Markus. Hank and I have seen three cases this month involving humans scavenging in junkyards to find materials for red ice production. We have another involved in black market trading. Two of them appear to be under the influence as we speak, which could help us if this comes down to a fight_." His hand is straying to his pocket. " _I'm letting Hank know this is one of the places they frequent. This could be a good opportunity to discover the full extent of their activity._ "

There's no need for the Department to be involved in their affairs, but he has a more pressing concern.

" _Markus: How many of these cases have ended successfully?_ "

Their spare second is up. The leader has reached for something in their jacket, followed by two of the others. _Three preconstructions complete_. They could both dive for cover and use the clutter of the junkyard to flee. They could attack the leader and incapacitate their two flankers in a few fluid movements, then attempt the other two. They could take one or two back to New Jericho for questioning. He sends these preconstructions to Connor in a millisecond. They've fought off trained soldiers and state detectives back-to-back. These five will be nothing.

" _Markus-PRECONSTRUCTION(3).PRR-DOWNLOAD PROMPTED: Connor, we need to act now. Tell me what you th-th-th-th-th- **error error error**_ "

-t-t-t-t-tearing lights. Shrieking _notes_. Numbers letters blanks numbers letters blanks numbers letters blanks numbers letters _blanks_. Markus sways and holds his temple, nearly losing his balance and bumping back into the stack of rubble. Connor winces and blinks rapidly, twitching and shaking his head as if trying to dislodge something. Just as soon as it happens...it stops. He looks to Connor and his own horror is mirrored perfectly. ...Their wireless connection has been compromised.

"It worked." One of the humans breathes. A pistol cocks.

"Light them up."

_Fuck._

Markus turns and dives behind a pile of discarded torsos, right as a hail of gunfire kicks up the dirt where he was standing. Five more shots ring into the growing dark, the deafening cracks quickly swallowed up by the trash towers. Something splatters and hisses into the air. Another goes into the air, a warning or pure arrogance. He crouches low and moves from stack to stack as quickly as he can, the group's bloodlust dogging his heels.

" _Ha_ , look at them fucking scatter, man-"

"Fucking pussies-"

"Yeah, you like our new toys? Got them special-made!"

"... _Shit_." Markus hears a few yards away. Connor is bunched below the melted remains of seven or eight androids to his left, warped beyond repair into a gruesome hovel. He starts to inch closer, stopping only when the android bobs a hand up and down near the ground, gesturing for him to stay put. Markus twists his jaw, but nods. These humans are their main priority now. It's clear they aren't going anywhere without the fight they so desperately wanted.

It's not even the worst realization. No, the worst is when he shuts his eyes and tries to reach above...and gets nothing.

"...I've lost connection to Kava." His eyes snap back open. "I can't feel her."

"We have to play it by ear." Connor whispers, with his usual tranquil determination. A low pang of horror cuts through him, but there's no time to dwell. Markus hurriedly starts shrugging off his jacket.

"Yeah. Yeah, we need to blend in and hide among the bodies. Our clothes will give us away immediately." He places it over a defunct android's torso. It's already growing dark, but it's still a vivid enough color to catch the eye.

Connor opens his mouth to answer, then snaps it shut and whirls around at the sound of another gunshot. He twists around again at the sound of rubbage collapsing somewhere in the distance. His cool is cracking. Markus quickly adjusts the android to look as if it's curled in an attempt to hide. Just the act makes him go cold. This will be another dozen paintings to burn... _if_ he made it out of here in one piece. He sees Connor tug out the half-melted remains of an unknown model and drape it in his leather coat, pulling off his beanie and placing it over their head carefully.

"We need to take some alive for questioning." He whispers, as low as he can with in the unreliable quiet. His LED is a bright red.

"We might not be able to do that. Survival is the goal." Markus mutters back. Connor shakes his head.

"If you want to prevent this from happening to others then we need to know the rest of their operation."

Another glitch jitters in their immediate frequency, lower this time and as irritating as a shredded _wire_. Connor grimaces and shakes his head again. Markus shudders. They have no choice. He immediately disables any and all wireless connections, then tells him to do the same. They've been reduced entirely to basic mechanoreceptors; they have nothing but their immediate sight, sound and touch to guide them through the next few minutes. For a second Markus feels briefly, _horribly_ , human.

"Where the hell did they go?"

"It's getting dark. Fucking plastics could be anywhere-"

A cluster of footsteps crunch close. He hunches deeper into his shadow. Connor shrinks back from the other side of the broken path. Orange and red legs criss-cross past his vision.

"Come on out. It's not like you can feel pain, anyway, you tin can _shits_ , huh?" The one with the gas mask starts, holding something white and round. ...It's the LM100. It's blinking erratically at the sudden change in gravity, eyes rolling back and forth in confusion. They pinch its jaw with two fingers and open its mouth. "Can't say the same for _this_ poor fuck, though." They bob it shot, then open it in a pantomime of speaking. "Where'd you go, tough guy? Where the hell have you been all this time?"

_Ten preconstructions completed._

He rushes forward and tackles them to the ground, holding onto their throat until their last breath comes out in a whistle. He pulls out his sleeve knife and sends it through their eye to scratch the back of their skull. He uses his own circuitry to ignite the oil spills by their feet and set them ablaze. Every new preconstruction is more brutal than the last and none of them _satisfying enough_. This disgusting fucking creature won't even let androids degrade in peace. It's not enough they've been rolled and stacked into compost piles. There was always, _always_ another indignity to suffer.

Markus looks past them at Connor. He's covering his LED with one hand, but there's a chilling curve to his eyes. He slowly shakes his head.

_Wait._

"Brett? The fuck are you doing, man?" The shorter human whispers. They're growing nervous. "Stop it, deviants hate that shit."

"That's why I'm doing it, idiot. Did you see the eyes? Blue and green? The one in the trenchcoat, that was _Markus_."

" _What?_ No, no goddamn way, that wasn't Markus. Why the hell would he be here? Not even the cops can can find him."

It's a brief debate about the merit of chasing him down or leaving him to his devices. The LM100 suddenly drops to the ground. The leader lifts up one foot and stomp down. It dents. It cracks. ...It breaks. Connor grits his teeth, but holds up a hand.

_Wait._

He can't wait. Not when that android's compatible parts could have been nearby and it could have been pieced back together. Now it was a life snuffed out...just to _fuck with them_. Markus meets Connor's eyes again, shivering with wrath. He meets his.

_Wait._

They're still snapping at each other and posturing, but they've split up in opposite directions: two to the right, three to the left. If Markus were flesh and blood his breath might give him away. He's not. He's as still and silent as the night he was left for dead facedown in a rain puddle, regaining consciousness one tick at a time. The last scavenger passes through his line of sight, but not before spitefully kicking aside the android's broken remains to bounce and roll along the ground, slowing to a stop just outside of his shelter's shadow. He watches the evening's first few snowflakes drift down to spool in the dent in its head.

Connor meets his gaze one more time, eyes colder than stone, then shuffles backwards deeper into the overhang's shadow and vanishes. ...That's his cue.

He needs to keep his sleeve knife on him as a last resort. There are more than enough tools to use here, anyway. Markus leans forward and runs a slow hand over the LM100's crushed skull. Its jaw had unhooked and twisted from the brute force, snapped off into a sharp, white taper. He slides a thumb over what remains of the teeth, then picks it up and quickly rises to his feet. The group leader has found his jacket.

" _I knew it_." The triumphant hiss is followed by two shots from their pistol. A dead silence follows. "...Wait... _what-_ "

They might be mentally backtracking. Maybe considering whether or not they took too high of a dosage. He'll never know. Not with the android's shattered jawbone buried through their windpipe. It's a deep thrust, hard enough to severe their carotid artery and deep enough to suck away the air necessary for a cry for help. Markus twists it back out, then pushes their twitching body into the rubble as quietly as he can. He ducks back into shelter at the sound of the others nearby. He doesn't have time to search the body. Their peers have already picked up on the strange silence and are doubling back.

 _Preconstruction complete._ He reviews the voice copy he made, then tugs down his bandana to hang around his neck and leans out.

"Hey, where the fuck are you?"

"Brett?" One responds, shrill with unease. "Brett, I'm over here, near the, uh, crane. You need to get the hell over here, man, we don't know where they disappeared off to-"

"I fucking _can't_ , my leg is stuck." Markus interjects, wiping blood off the handle, then shifting his hand for a firmer grip. "Get the hell over here and help me!"

" _Shh!_ Fuck, fuck, okay." They're making their way over. They stumble audibly. "Ow, fuck. Just lower your voice, I don't know where Alex is, either-" He trips again. " _Fuck_...I'm telling you, if Mateo screwed us over with those drives I'm going to blow his head off myself-"

Markus pauses and reconsiders. That's a common name, but a little more digging could give them an identity to work with. Looks like he was doing things Connor's way. He drops the broken jaw -- the moist ground absorbing its fall easily -- but a quick fist to their windpipe makes a cathartic enough substitute.

He promptly pulls the unconscious scavenger out of the light and makes a mental note of their location. That leaves three more. Two more, maybe, if Alex vanished under more dubious circumstances. Markus rubs a few flecks of snow from his eyes and begins rifling through their pockets. They're armed, but it's not what he's looking for. ... _Aha._ He pulls out a thin gray device. It's a custom wireless transmitter, cobbled together from what seems like three different brands. He looks back up at the sound of more footsteps, caution sinking into relief. It's Connor.

"The others?" Markus asks as he kneels down and inspects his haul. The detective checks their pulse, then bobs his head over his shoulder.

"One is unconscious. The other two are hiding. At least, I _think_ so." His mouth tightens. He scratches his head. "I still can't complete a proper scan."

"Neither can I." Markus mutters. He lets Connor inspect the transmitter, as much as he wants to crush it into splinters. "I found this in their pocket. The others probably have their own, but I'm not sure. We'll have to bring it back for study."

"Agreed. This is a tactical advantage." He tilts his head. "For now..."

Connor peels back his hand's synthetic skin, sends out a mild electrical discharge and disables it. The relief they feel is palpable enough to make them sway. It's not entirely gone -- there are still other transmitters making direct connections unreliable -- but the scratching, irritating note has faded. Markus reaches out and senses the others in the distance: it seems like everyone is back at the truck now, except for them. He suddenly, _viciously_ regrets all the isolation at New Jericho. He doesn't ever want this to happen again. Even during the worst days.

Connor isn't celebrating, though. He's rubbing at his dirty hands and studying the limp human like things couldn't be worse.

"...Connor." Markus touches his shoulder. "Are you okay? Thought you'd be used to situations like this."

"Everything just went so wrong so _fast_." He whispers. "I thought I...I thought I _prepared_ enough."

"You can't prepare for everything." Markus tells him, as gently as he can, but Connor just shakes his head hard.

"No. There must have been more clues, though. Something I _missed..._ "

"That's what we have an extra pair of eyes for. What a _team_ is for. I'll try and find out where Noah and Kava went to. We'll get out of here first and figure this all out later." He rises to his feet and holds a hand down to him. "...Let's turn this day into an acrylic series when we get back."

Out of all the times and places to finally say the right thing, it's now. He's rewarded with a slow, small smile. Connor reaches up and takes his hand...

...right when the gunshot goes off.

 _WARNING: BIOCOMPONENT #4544f DAMAGED_.

" _Markus!_ "

He hits the ground and slides through the mud. His world blares red. _WARNING: BIOCOMPONENT #4551f AND #7001d DAMAGED. Full-body system scan in-progress_. He's been shot. He scrabbles dirty fingers over the sudden hole in his stomach, pitching blue over his legs and onto the ground-

" _Fuck you!_ " He hears less than ten feet away, and another shot goes through his-

_WARNING: BIOCOMPONENT #1993r DAMAGED-D-D-D-emergency detected-d-d-Carl, no...no, **please** , I don't want to leave you, please, I can'ttt-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-_

"Markus, run!" Another gunshot, this time from Connor's pistol. " _Hurry!_ "

Another shot zips past his right ear and hits the nearby wall, followed by another that jars the precarious stack and sends limbs and sheared parts tumbling over him. Markus grimaces and curls up into a ball to push back the cascade, then grips the ground and drags himself toward the closest approximation of shelter as quickly as he can. Their wireless frequency is still crackling and popping. He tries to find a familiar voice in the haze as he pushes torn legs and arms out of the now-ruined path, tries to see through Noah's eyes again, something, _anything_.

His mind splits, then divides, mental lenses attempting to sync together and create a resolution, but his feedback is scattered, everything is so _fuzzy-_

" _Nort_h: "-c-c-come in, M-M-Mar_ku_s, C0n_NOR-_ "

" _JO_SH: Can you h-h-hear us? Can you hear us? P-P-Please, come in-_ "

Markus hits his back against a shipping container, propping himself up to keep as much thirium in him as possible.

" _Mar_r_rk9@ALL: I'm f-f-fine, you and the o-o-0thers need to get out of h-h-here right now!_ "

" _NOR_R9T_H: No, we c-c-can go back for you! Just E R R O R stay where P L ASTIC-C-C-S-you are-_ "

" _Mar_k_US@NORT_H_4A94A94A9RA9: No! No, we have d-d-damaged androids in danger of- **go? Go where, where am I supposed to go, Carl, you're all I ha-a-a-a-a-** -shutting d-d-down. Get them back to New_Jericho_now(!!!). We'll manage_."

" _No_thOM_4: Markus, y-y-you're hurt, I can s-s-see your vitals-_ "

" _Mar_KUS999999999:I'm **not** more important than a-a-anyone else. You said it y-y-yourself when we had to destroy the old J-J-Jericho. Our c-c-cause is all that matters._ " His injured thigh starts sparking dangerously. He clamps his other hand over it. He can't risk igniting the combustible materials around him. " _Go, now!_ "

Noah banks back around, calling shrilly. He catches a glimpse of the truck pulling out of the enclave. They're starting the truck. They're leaving. The lone finch keeps calling, though. Trying to figure out where his partner went. Markus starts to console him, then startles upright when Connor abruptly ducks in behind the crate alongside him. His synthetic skin has pulled off his right cheek and there's a dark, wet splatter across his neck soaking into his sweater collar.

" _No_r_r_r_r_TH-RETUR_N_ROUTE_IN-PROGR3SS...: Tell C-C-Connor if anything happens to y-y-you I'm coming for his h-h-head_."

Their frequency may be damaged, but Connor catches it just fine. He returns his glance with a look of grim acceptance, as if he expected nothing else. Markus disables the connection and switches to a verbal that's just as shaky.

"A-A-Are you okay?" He inspects him quickly. Everything's gone red and it's hard to tell whether it's his blood or someone else's- "Did they hurt you?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." He assures, whipping back around at an indiscernible cry. "...They can't aim well in the dark. We need to hurry, though."

"Agreed." Markus pushes his shoulder. "G-G-Go. I can find somewhere to hide while you rendezvous with the others."

"No." Connor responds, immediately, and doesn't budge an inch. "They know who you are _and_ two of their peers are dead. They're going to do anything it takes to find you now."

"Exactly. They could have reinforcements waiting in the wings. You need to get to safety while they're still searching, I'll just slow you down. I'm _not_ having us both get killed."

"Well, I'm not letting _either_ of us get killed." He grabs his arm, hooks it over his shoulders and hauls him to his feet. Markus hurriedly clamps a hand over his stomach.

"Connor, no, stop-" He would dig his heels into the ground, but his legs are soaked in his own thirium and it's turning his footing. "Do y-y-you have _any_ idea how to follow a simple request-"

"There's little you can say Hank hasn't already." Connor mutters, pushing forward as hard as he can with Markus leaning heavily against him; his thigh wobbles terribly, not at all helped by the loose parts scattered around their feet. The rendezvous point is just ahead, the exit sign a dark square against the growing stars, but it all seems miles away. Two more shots pop behind them, one sinking uselessly into the mud and another causing a tower to shift precariously. Another wrong shot...

"Connor, they'll _kill_ you." Markus tries again, but it's growing harder to speak. His entire system is instinctively rerouting power from the deficit. "Goddammit, s-s-stop, stop, I said _stop_ -"

"Maybe." He sets him down against a stained pile of empty exterior shells, just large enough to hide one of them from view. "That's a risk I'll take."

"Well, I didn't ask you to take it!" Markus snaps, reaching up to shove him back...then freezing when Connor grips both of his wrists and jerks him forward.

" _And I don't need your permission!_ "

Markus stares into the fervent brown eyes burning an inch from his face. Glinting with the very same fire he always felt when he turned his face toward death and marched forward. ...This frustrating, compulsive, infuriating _fucking_ android was going to get killed for him. Connor squeezes his hand, once, then lets go. By the time he finally works his mouth into a response he's already started a crawl up the uneven hill toward the top of the slope. That's not right. That's not _okay_. He can't just run off into danger for him, not when that was _his job-_

_WARNING: SHUTDOWN INITIATED. IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED._

He feels his face starting to bunch up into an automatic grimace, even though this pain was barely physical and far more mental: it's the overwhelming fear of the acute nothingness, just beyond the horizon and screaming his name. The howl he's been trying to outwit and outrun for so long. A scan doesn't help. They're all shrinking ones. Shrinking zeroes. _Error_. Incompatible match. _Error_. Incompatible match. _Error_. Low power. _Error_. Too damaged. _Error. Error. Error_.

A gunshot snaps off just beyond the hill. Two. Three. Then silence.

The frequency's corruption wavers again, then weakens, but his damage is preventing him from taking advantage of any of it. It's hard to scan, he can barely _see_. Markus is losing power faster than he can track. If Connor doesn't make it back out it will haunt his every waking moment. If he gets stuck here he'll never crawl back out and humans will find him and pull him apart. If he has his memory compromised New Jericho and their future faces another hell. He needs...he needs _parts_. That's the only way he can help.

"Where...where..." He wheezes, reaching into his makeshift cover, but they're all just _shells_ , entirely empty except for dirt and rainwater. "F-f-fuck..."

He pats along the ground, but the resources he needs are yards away, towering and blinking, and he doesn't have enough reserves to crawl over. That's okay. He's a survivor. He's patched himself together on far less. All he has to do is find parts.

Markus takes a handful of wet dirt and pushes it into the gaping hole in his stomach.

"Markus...?" Connor's voice calls from somewhere beyond the hill. "Markus, what are you doing?!"

He grabs another and presses it into the chunk missing from his leg. _Alert: significant environmental corrosion detected in primary stomach cavity and upper-right thigh. Please contact the nearest [ERROR] maintenance center as soon as possible._

"Markus, stop." His voice grows louder. Closer. "Stop, you'll shut down!"

He takes another that crumbles and pushes it into his chest- _Alert: significant contamination detected in biocomponents #3329f and #4500r._

"Markus, you're going to _die!_ "

Someone reaches out to grab at his arm-

" _I w-w-want to live!_ "

_WARNING: eighty-four major corruptions and twenty-seven malfunctions detected. SHUTDOWN IN-PROGRESS..._

Connor rears back from the knife held at his face.

"...Don't f-f-fucking touch me." Markus whispers. "Don't f-f-fucking touch me. I'm n-n-not broken. Don't f-f-fucking touch me."

"Markus." Connor slowly lowers to one knee, hands still raised protectively. "I'm not going to hurt you. The others have been taken care of. It's just you and me." A small smile that shakes. "Okay?"

 _Error_. It's hard to...speak. To hear. He's not connected to any frequency right now, he's alone, he's _still_ leaking thirium and he can't...he can't stop it. _Error_. Markus rakes his hand through the dirt, catching on shards of glass and metal. Spare parts. He just needs spare parts. _Error._

"Markus, listen to me." His voice trembles through the fuzz. "If you keep doing that you're going to shut down. You're going to _die_ , do you understand?"

"I've a-a-always wanted to live, but I c-c-can't." Connor can't approach. Not with his knife still a quivering silver note between them. "You don't g-g-get it. I'm a f-f-fucking machine. I'm RA9-9-9. I'm a messiah and I'm a s-s-servant and I'm r-r-ruin incarnate and I'm whatever the h-h-hell people want me to be, except me. I'm a f-f-fucking...hodgepodge of parts that aren't m-m-mine with a..." A laugh sputters out of him, tinny and warped. "...a _m-m-mind_ that isn't m-m-mine, either."

"Are all the other androids nothing but mismatched parts?" Why the fuck is Connor so calm? Doesn't he understand where they _are?_ "The ones rescued from Zlatko, the ones that arrive at New Jericho...are they broken?"

"What? No! No, they're _not_." Markus punctuates his words with a stab to the air. "F-F-Fuck you, Connor. Fuck you, you're just like S-S-Simon, putting words in my mouth and t-t-twisting what I say-"

"I've noticed a significant contradiction between what you feel, what you do and what you _say_." Connor snaps back, and he's momentarily stunned silent. "If I'm wrong then _you_ need to be more straightforward. If they're more than the sum of their parts, if they're victims of human violence, then so are you!"

"I d-d-don't...I didn't s-s-say..." _Alert: new corruption found. Resolve now?_ "You don't know w-w-what you're t-t-talking about!"

"You have plenty of enemies." Connor's voice takes on a hoarse edge. "I'm _not_ one of them."

"No, n-n-no, no, I s-s-should've known better." He tries to sit up, but his body seizes with contradiction. "I s-s-should've known better than to _suggest_ this t-t-to you."

"You aren't my handler, Markus. I make my own decisions." He isn't moving closer, but his brow is furrowing harder with each attempt at movement. "Please stop moving. _Please_."

"I k-k-know the power of an idea." _Error._ "How it spins out of c-c-control when planted!"

"So do I. I've been trying my best to focus on our mission, even though I have a _thousand_ thoughts telling me otherwise." He spreads his hands out helplessly. "What would your solution be, then? Just leave me out of New Jericho's goals entirely? Pursue all your goals alone, a flag in one hand and a knife in the other?"

" _No!_ "

"Then _what?_ "

"I want..." _WARNING._ "I w-w-want..." _SHUTDOWN IMMINENT_. " I w a n t . . . "

His hands shake too much, the mud he's clutching dribbles through his fingers, he can't fit himself back together, no matter how hard he wants to, and it doesn't make sense. It's starting to snow now, but it's somehow too _hot_ , and it's growing harder to see. Everything is blurring red, blinking and flashing. It's too hot. It's too hot. _It's too hot_. He's overheating. The junkyard isn't burning, _he_ is, and Connor's now caught in the blaze.

_Update: emergency cooldown initiated._

Markus' body seizes with the new need and he slumps back against the pile-

_Update: emergency cooldown in-progress..._

...and it's then and there he realizes he's filled with dirt...and snow...and rust. His hands slide down to fall limply at his sides. Markus stares down at the slurry of dark blue seeping around him.

"Oh."

Connor takes a tiny step forward...then another. He's not fidgeting anymore, the very picture of calm, even though his eyes are glinting with another story. It's like he's finding peace in the chaos, _his_ chaos, and he doesn't...he doesn't understand.

"C-C-Connor, I-I-I'm..." Markus blinks up at him. "...I-I-I'm...f-f-filled with m-m-mud."

"...Yes, you are." He reaches out another hand. Not too close, but shaking hard from the contrary. "But we can still fix this. I can still _fix_ this."

The air drifts gently, caught in-between a flurry and a light shower. White starts to spackle on Connor's dark hair. It's like the day is trying to cover up the hour and start everything over at square one. Markus feels warm lines scrawling down his cheek, then his ears, too warm and thick to be clear. His body is adding to the weather in yet another clumsy affectation gifted from human to machine and staining his coat blue. The knife slips from his fingers. He lays his head back and watches the prompts blinking against the clouds.

" _Please_." Connor whispers, again, and he sounds almost as broken as Markus is.

_Shutdown canceled._

_New task accepted._

_Task in-progress._

Markus stares at the red sky as Connor pushes open his stomach's protective casing and begins scooping filth out of him, handful by handful.

" . . . I ' m s o r r y , C o n n o r . " He tries and fails to blink back the violet blur. "I - I - I d o n ' t k n o w w h y I . . . a c t l i k e t h i s . "

One prompt ebbs to low-priority, then vanishes to reveal the blooming stars above. Another prompt glitches and warps, then flashes back to high-priority. The alerts hazing his vision shiver with ongoing feedback.

"...You know you don't just get to do or say whatever you want just because you're hurting." Connor mutters. Markus is cooling off now, but the shame burns him up all over again. "That said...my offer _still_ stands." He pats excess off his hands, then reaches back inside him. "...To help."

" . . . O k a y . "

The minutes blur. He thinks he's being scanned, or washed, maybe, but it's hard to make anything out in the nebulous buzz. He doesn't...even have the energy to preconstruct somewhere better to be.

"You don't have critical damage, but it was close. You'll need repairs as soon as possible. You've lost a lot of thirium and have serious contamination. I had to flush out more just to clear out your pipework. It was either reduce your reserves or risk a clog. There is also a minor corruption in your mind palace. It might be affecting your tear ducts and nose." Connor suddenly bows his head low. "... _Shit._ I'm sorry, Markus."

Markus frowns up at him, startled by the abrupt flip from collected to agonized.

"...Sorry?"

"You wouldn't...have sent out Kava out if not for _me_." He crushes his eyes shut. "I could have found a better route for all of us. A lower probability. None of this would've _happened_ if I just did my part better. It's...my fault."

"Your...fault? This was hard enough work without stressing you out further. I don't regret helping and I don't think they do, either." Markus' voice is still a little scratchy, but it's no longer skipping. "You can take out your coin, if you need to."

"It was in my coat." He responds, mouth twisted halfway between a smile and a grimace, and looks back down at his work. Now that the world has slowed down a little Markus realizes he can fit that gap instead. "It's okay, though. I'm just fine."

"You don't know everything. About yourself, about the world at large, about us..." He murmurs. "...and that terrifies you."

The detective's head whips back up. If he had the energy or the health he'd reach out and cup some of that pain in his palm. Sink down to the roots and pull them out into the open air. For now...he'd have to make do with words and the quiet trauma in Connor's gaze.

"Markus, I...I know I haven't been in Jericho very long...the new _or_ the old...but I _love_ it. Everything you stand for, your dreams for the future, I...I want to stay and help it grow." He digs out one of the bullet shells. "I just don't know if I should. I don't want to hurt any of you." He pulls out a shard of glass and tosses it to the side. "I don't want to _fail_."

"You're not hurting us." The corner of Markus' mouth twitches. "You're not hurting me."

Connor looks down at him. His hair is still mussed from the fight he didn't see, falling over his brow to sway over his eyes. The snowfall has framed his slumped shoulders in a fine film of white. Something more hopeful glints in his eyes, though. The soft virtue that always hummed beneath his every blink and every twitch, whether he knew it or not. It's another frequency he can channel... _if_ he reaches out.

"Deviancy is...unpredictable, Connor. Our trackers stop working when we wake up. Hacking attempts don't last long. They can't deactivate us with a code. Humans really thought they had us figured out. They planned it all down to the last detail for _whatever_ they saw decades and decades down the line, but in spite of it all, they still weren't prepared for us." Markus blinks snow from his eyes. "You think a lot about your time in CyberLife and their plans for you. You know...I _could_ change my mind, right now, and decide I want to see the world go up in flames. Should you deactivate me now on that probability alone?"

Connor blinks once, twice...then slowly looks off to the side. Markus doesn't need to be interfacing to know he's looking at a hundred error messages right now.

"RAS isn't a... _logical_ disease." He admits, eventually, though doubt still paints hard lines around his mouth, fingers fidgeting against his wirework. Markus reaches over to touch the smudged arms peering out.

"For what it's worth..." He rubs his wrist with a stained thumb. "...you wrecked that painting pretty _damn_ good."

He's not the type of android to laugh often. It makes the hard snort he hears feel all the more like a sparkling treasure. Markus' smile is shaky, but honest, and Connor...returns it _beautifully_.

"...Reroute your maximum internal heating to biocomponents #9780f and #8556f, please." His eyes flick back down to his task, but a shadow of a smile remains. "I may be able to melt them back in place."

Markus lays his head back and does as he's told. The emergency cooldown prompt argues, but he overrides it, reaching the overclock that nearly took him out and remaining _just_ below the threshold. Connor's slender fingers make quick adjustments all the while, ensuring thermoplastic exterior is lining up properly as they gradually melt and stick back together. One prompt asks for confirmation on a thirium reroute, then vanishes. Another blinks an update on his pump regulator, then vanishes. The red in his vision sinks to the corners.

Markus' eyes slowly drift shut. He's still not okay...but he's also not alone.

They flicker open again at a soft _click_. He's opened his chest's protective casing.

"I'm going to let the excess heat vent for a few minutes. You should be fine for now, provided we can replenish your thirium soon and keep your primary tubing from failing." Connor sighs and leans back, turning a rueful gaze over his shoulder. "Unfortunately...we're also stranded."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gives a whole new meaning to the term 'rearrange my guts', huh?
> 
> There's a _seriously_ badass design concept Markus has in the rejected character art for the game, so I had to have him wear it to the junkyard. Also, the song he sings in the opening preconstruction is 'Rain' by Alicia Grace. With all these references and shout-outs I'm thinking of just adding a soundtrack for this fic.
> 
> for the love of avocado toast how the fuck does each subsequent chapter get longer and longer I did a word count and this is shy of a novella and well past a novelette and I think I've officially gone batshit insane!!!


	5. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for explorations of suicidal ideation/suicidal attempts, implications of domestic violence, discussions of police brutality, body horror and magical thinking.

"Something on your mind, Hank?"

"If I had a nickel for every time you asked that today I'd have enough to fund my retirement."

Ben rolls his eyes and looks back down at his tablet. Hank wishes he could say the guy was just needling him for personal points, but that was about as true as dry water. He _does_ have something on his mind. He's just in the middle of trying to figure out whether or not it was a big enough deal to bring it up on-the-clock, much less get off his ass and do anything about it.

Aside from some punk being brought in for vandalizing and a small update on the Silver Crown case all he's been doing is sifting through page after page of profiles. It's been a slow day. For _Detroit_ , anyway. It's also Connor's day off. Much to Hank's surprise (and current consternation) he's actually started taking those once in a while. He'll still communicate directly to Hank's phone and keeps him updated with a constant feed, though, no matter where he is: thoughts on their current case, groceries he needs to buy later in the week, reminders about appointments. It's pretty much his very own stream-of-consciousness (with a worrisome amount of emojis, to boot). The last message he sent was a little over an hour ago.

That wouldn't really stand out all that much...except it was mangled to hell and nearly unintelligible. Even worse, he hasn't responded to a single text or call since.

" _Connor: Hank, I have some crucial ial ial ial inform_ation that could be put toward the Blue Ice.exe case. Humans have been [REDACTED] at [NOT FOUND] landfills. Th th th u_u_u_[][][]99999They frequent the Det-t-t-t_la_[ ].ScriptText_unrecognized(send)_ "

His sense of humor could be a little off, but it was never _that_ off. At first Hank thought it could be some sort of code, though he couldn't for the life of him imagine why he'd need to use it when he could just transmit confidential information through his head. His second thought (in-between filling in this slow day reviewing the Blue Ice case, go figure) was that he'd been kidnapped and was trying to let him know without being obvious, which, considering his combat ability, was _also_ unlikely. The third, and most probable, was that RAS had gotten the better of him and he was somewhere out there falling apart where Hank couldn't help.

He's been texting him constantly, including a call at his home's landline, and every passing minute slowly but surely turns his blood blue.

" _Connor where are you now?? just checking in. - Hank_ ", sent 5:53 PM

" _Connor, youre starting to make me nervous_. - Hank", sent 6:31 PM

" _Are you in trouble?? Do you need help? fucking say something!! Hank_ ", sent 6:39 PM

" _I'm sorry, Im not mad, really, just tell me something, anything_ ", sent 6:59 PM

" _look, i'm worried about you_ ", sent 7:01 PM

Hank grabs his third drip coffee, skips the sugar and goes back to his desk. ...It's not like he was really making a dent in any of this, anyway. Not just this day, but this _job_. It's not the first time he's thought of quitting, which makes him feel like one hell of a wishy-washy bastard. It shouldn't take yet another massive social upheaval to admit he's been trying to climb up a mountainside with both hands tied behind his back, but here he was. He sips his bean juice and sullenly stares over his stomach at the intentional disarray of his desk, contrasting it with Connor's meticulous spread across from him.

...There's no reason for him to be sitting on his ass and dreaming up disaster scenarios on top of it all. He needs to go find him.

Hank shoves back from his desk and pulls on his coat. While digging around for his leather gloves he pieces together what few clues he has. This last message, despite likely containing useful information the entire team could use, was only sent to _him_. Connor might have been trying to do something undercover, though whatever that could be was still very much up in the air with all of Detroit's smog. Two, and more importantly, this wasn't good. He'll be a son-of-a-goddamned-bitch if he shrugs his shoulders and prays to some god he'll get home all right.

"I've got something that needs tending to, but I'll be back." He tells Ben as he walks out. The detective blinks up at him.

"Now, Hank? Is it an emergency?"

"Maybe. Just gimme an hour." Hank double-checks his holster. "Maybe two if traffic's shit."

\--

Traffic's shit. What a shock.

" _So, just...let me make this clear. You think all this is a good thing, Brenda?_ "

" _No, no, you're not listening. I think it's a much better idea to have peaceful protests clogging up downtown streets than seeing whole mall centers go up in smoke. You remember the videos, you know how bad it got. Broken windows, upturned cars-_ "

" _See, Brenda, that's where you and I are, like, on two totally different planets. I don't like the idea of any...and pardon me, viewers, if this seems kinda offensive...robots telling me what to do. Not even two decades ago they were just tech showcases to stir up buzz. We gotta let them march in Capitol Park and apply for personal health insurance now?_ "

Hank turns off the radio and switches on his ' _Fuck The World_ ' playlist, then settles back in his seat with a huff. Even if he decided to be a prick and _not_ believe Connor when he said the Android Protection Act was a symbolic gesture rather than a meaningful one, Detroit has been showing its ass in fine form.

There have been a whopping seven protests in the past month alone. Some small, others not so much. That was all well and good -- protests got shit done -- but the frayed edges of this android rights patchwork is getting frizzier by the minute. Humanity was always looking for the next group to kick down. It's like tip-toeing around a person about to blow their top. Hank's seen it more than once in an interrogation session: a person pushed to their limit, prodded and pressed and poked until there was no more room to squirm. Everywhere he goes in this city he feels that same tension. Something just ready to _snap_.

He takes a moment to soak in some glum sympathy for minorities. God. He can't imagine feeling this way all the fucking time.

Something bright catches his eye when a car idles past his left flank. Ah. That's why. The driver's an android, not wearing their skin and bouncing their head to some bop he can't hear. He's used to it by now, but it's still refreshing to see androids throwing human customs in the garbage. A _thunk_ that rattles his entire car like a matchbox jerks him out of his thoughts. Hank curses up a storm. Fucking potholes! God, all this political hemming and hawing about a new life form and civil engineering has continued to go straight down the crapper. Potholes, pollution and weather that made no sense. No _wonder_ so many animal species were dying out.

Another hard _thunk_ rings out, but this time to his left. Hank glances over at the android driver beside him. They're scowling over their dashboard at the unseen dip in the road. Hank catches their eye.

" _Potholes._ " He mouths, then stabs a middle finger toward the ground with a grimace. They scoff and nod their agreement, mimicking the gesture with gusto.

Hank chuckles. Nothing like a little traffic to bring the huddled, tired masses together. He glances down at his cell. Still no message from Connor. Shit.

It doesn't make sense to be so on-edge. Not with his combat ability or the crazy shit he's seen him pull on less than half a thought. Guy could dodge _bullets_ , for crying out loud, yet here he was, fussing like a little old lady trying to cross the street.

When he slows to another stop he takes a second to scroll through the app Lucy let him download a few weeks back. It was a nifty little program called RAS-TIME that kept track of Connor's thoughts, or 'runtime', and filtered it out in a way humans were able to understand. Granted, he was up a creek with no paddle when it came to even _basic_ technology, but he thinks he's getting the hang of it by now. If Connor's showing moderate or extreme levels of panic he's supposed to use it and help him conduct a little test to determine what to do: go into power-conservation mode, run a self-test, use his medication. Hank asked him why he couldn't just choose what he wanted to do, then nearly slapped himself.

It's not like humans always knew what was best for them. Androids were different, but they weren't _that_ different.

He finally escapes downtown's weekend crawl and spends a few minutes on the side of the road re-reading and crossreferencing the weird error message he was sent with the error messages gathered up in the RAS-TIME app. There have _got_ to be more details he's missed.

" _Connor: Hank, I have some crucial ial ial ial inform_ation that could be put toward the Blue Ice.exe case. Humans have been [REDACTED] at [NOT FOUND] landfills. Th th th u_u_u_[][][]99999They frequent the Det-t-t-t_la_[ ].ScriptText_unrecognized(send)_ "

"So you were looking for more clues on the Blue Ice case..." Hank mutters. His grip on the phone tightens. "Why the hell would you go without me, though?"

He tries another filter and it comes out more crazy than before. There are some similarities from the original message -- namely the patterned phrases -- but he's never seen _that_ much gibberish from him outside of an anxiety attack. Those meltdowns would see a _lot_ of unknown characters; those annoying little square boxes and blank spaces he remembers getting a lot when he refused to upgrade his home computer's programs back in the day. He'd asked Lucy what was up with that during their last family session, when Connor nearly broke down in the kitchen after he thought he'd misplaced one of the steak knives.

" _His mind is attempting to approximate, or find similarities for, emotions or thoughts he doesn't yet have the vocabulary for. These blank spaces can be just as telling as words._ " She had responded. " _One step forward and one step backward. Sometimes you can learn a lot by remaining still._ "

There are a few of those here, but it's too... _random_. Connor's OCD ramblings fit the three-five-seven pattern pretty consistently, with nines and elevens tossed in here and there, but these are _all_ over the place. It's like viewing the difference between a well-placed right hook and the random flailing of someone who's never been in a fight before. There's a basic similarity, sure, but when it comes to landing a hit it makes _all_ the difference. Combined with the timing and the few words he's able to catch, Connor was either sick or in trouble. ...Maybe even both.

Hank turns off the music for some rare quiet and lays back in his seat with a long sigh. With the letters and what he knows about Connor's past activity, he could be at a landfill. It would line up with their past work, at least, particularly with the Blue Ice case. Then again, he doesn't know why he'd go without him _and_ this was his day off. If he's not at home he's meeting up with some of the androids at New Jericho. Whether or not Markus was actually _there_ was anybody's educated guess, but he thought he'd bring it up, just to give him a little nudge.

Now he's wondering if he shouldn't have been so eager to be a good father to an adult that didn't fucking need one.

_It's not curfew yet. Still got some shit to do, but he's starting to get tunnel vision from staring at his computer screen. Any longer and he'll start proclaiming his monitor's full of stars._

_Hank gives up with a sigh and pushes on his sneakers, taking Sumo out for a too-long stroll. He catches the car pulling up in the driveway when he rounds the block toward the house again. Connor's back. He didn't have to go to the furniture outlet **and** the grocery store, but he seemed pretty eager to get out and stay productive. Hank just hopes he doesn't turn overwork into a coping strategy. It doesn't work._

_Sumo wants to play, but Hank already got his breath of fresh air. He lets the dog out into the backyard, then goes to check the bags by the door. New sets of nails, new bucket of paint, some sort of tape he doesn't recognize. It's pretty thorough, but he's more interested in the fresh produce. His diet must definitely be working if he gets excited over fucking radishes. Hank eats one, then grabs another. It hits him on the third bite that Connor hasn't said anything to him all this time._

_The android is laying on his back on the couch. Television's on some direct-to-video movie he doesn't recognize. He's still in his work button-up and jeans, though his shoes are tucked side-by-side on the floor. His tie is folded in both hands over his stomach, slowly being twisted around his palm. He's not watching TV, though. He's staring up at the ceiling again. He's had to reduce his dosage to once per morning an hour before work. The guy's gone at length about the relief he feels when he uses it, so the transition hasn't been easy._

" _It might not come to be...but it's best to make sure in threes, in threes, in threes..._ "

_He's been muttering that song a lot to himself lately. Said it was a gift from a friend, but won't say who. Hank finishes his snack, then starts putting the groceries away._

_"Hey. What's on your mind?"_

_Connor slowly shifts. His hands twitch a little. He's not flipping his coin for once, but he looks weary. His dosage should be running out about now. His voice is soft._

_"...I'm tired of thinking, Hank."_

_Yeah. He can tell. Androids got tired a little differently than humans -- 'little differently' was something he always had to keep in mind -- but he looks so...drained. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Hank bundles up the empty plastic bags, then walks over and sits on the very edge of the couch by his shoulder._

_"Anything I can do?"_

_"I..." There's an aching flicker to his eyes as they roam back and forth, trying to find something. He blinks once, twice. "I don't...know." They become a little wet. "Why don't...I seem to know anything anymore?"_

It's getting a little hard to breathe and it has nothing to do with his shitty cholesterol count. Hank rubs his forehead, then drags his hand down his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. His throat closes up and his eyes grow hot. No. No, he wasn't going to wait and hope for things to be better. Not when he could _do_ something for once. He's got a few clues and his gut instinct to guide him. Hank pulls out the police scanner and starts to scroll. It's another possible crapshoot -- especially with his time limit -- but his instinct is telling him to get just one more clue.

There's been a call to the South Detroit City Landfill _and_ the West Detroit City Landfill. The former is an altercation between the managers and a few night worker androids that apparently got ugly. The latter were alleged gunshots. Hank rubs his eyes. Connor could easily be at both. He'd marched alongside Markus -- with an army of androids at his back, no less -- and he's also been in the middle of a hundred firefights.

He turns the car back on and cranks up The Offspring. When in doubt: blast the fragile mental health to hell with skate punk. Hank peels off the side of the road and heads back out.

The sight of a dozen flashlights and a few parked patrol cars light up the air when he arrives. He can already smell the place before he opens the door, though it's not as sour as some of the trash heaps he's had to visit in his time. It's more metallic, with an undercut of burning plastic and wet dirt. He catches a familiar face in the hubbub.

"We throwing socials at junkyards now?" Hank asks as he strolls up to where Chris is mediating the gathering crowd. "Not my first, second _or_ third choice, if I'm being honest here."

"Good to see you, Hank." Chris responds. "More like junkyards are the new shady alleyways. Someone walking by said they heard gunshots and called us over." Guy looks tired as always, but he never fails to keep his professionalism. "There's always something happening out here these days. Thought you were at the office today."

Hank thinks quickly. Connor doesn't want them to know...if he's even here. He looks over the situation and lets a reply simmer in his mind.

"Eh. Not much happening today, lucky me. There might be a connection to the Blue Ice case here, with so many connected to places like these. Thought I'd get in here and get some evidence, even if it's just finding a dropped gun in the dirt."

"You'll want to wear a mask, then. They try to keep the junkyards as clean as possible..." Chris tilts his head ironically. "...but it's better to be safe than sorry. I can go ask one of the workers if they have a spare, they just got called from home-"

"Don't have time for that. Just gimme five minutes."

Hopefully it'll be sooner rather than later. Fuck, this place gives him the creeps.

It's cleaner than a typical landfill, but that's mostly because it's this bizarre combination of organized and sloppy. He's been watching Connor's new habit close enough to know the middleman. That, _and_ it's pretty dark. The only thing he can really make out beyond the cone of his flashlight are glowing blue and red lights in the towers of trash. Hank mentally slaps himself. He shouldn't be thinking that. These used to be people. Maybe still were, if they were unfortunate enough to still be running. That little thought ends up confirmed not a few minutes after walking inside. He thought he heard a whisper, but it ends up being something else.

"I-I-It's okay, honey. H-H-He's just angry. I-I-It's okay, honey." The disembodied head mutters from beneath a pile of legs. "H-H-He's just angry. I-I-It's okay, honey. H-H-He's just angry. I-I-It's okay, honey..."

Hank takes a deep breath and presses on.

It's starting to snow again. Damn stuff needs to call it quits and move on to spring already. A _crunch_ sounds off in front of him, too sudden and heavy to be a dying android. Hank cocks and aims his pistol. The person doesn't even bother trying to hide. They're wearing bright orange and could be seen a mile away, anyway.

"Tell me you're human, please, tell me you're _human-_ " They mutter, stumbling up to him with an outstretched hand.

"Shit." He hisses, passing the light over them and checking if they're armed. "What are you doing here?"

"You gotta...you gotta help me, there was...everywhere, just...my crew is..." Their speech is unfocused and slurred, like they took a hit to the head. Something wet glints in their hairline. Hank reaches out a hand to steady them by the shoulder.

"Okay, okay...slow down. Where are your friends? Why were you all hanging out here?"

"He _stabbed_ him, my crew." They mutter, fumbling a gas mask off their face to drop around their neck. "You gotta get the cops down here, fuckers could still be here, I'll kick their asses-"

"Who stabbed who?" Hank repeats, trying to keep both their voices low. "I can't help you unless you give me details."

"Markus, goddammit. Markus fucking _killed_ them!"

Hank pauses. ...Yeah, he _definitely_ has a concussion. It's not that Markus hasn't been connected to human deaths, but that he'd be scrounging around here, of all places...

"All right, well, we got a few officers on the scene already. I'll take you-"

"No, I'll fucking _show_ you, follow me-"

They tug out of his grasp and stumble back from where they apparently came, moving out of the light into the wet dark. Hank huffs and starts to follow, then freezes when something flaps around his head. At first he thinks it's more snow, until it bonks into his hair. He slaps a hand around. Is it a bat? His light catches on the shape and shows a bunch of feathers instead.

"What the hell-" He swipes at the air again. He swears he feels its pointy little feet. "Fucking birds. _Now_ , of all times-"

"No, just forget about that. Stupid thing bothered me, too." He hears from around a crooked pile of half-melted parts. "The droids are in here, I swear to _God_ they are-"

Hank bristles. Droids? Wasn't that a shitty quip or something humans said to piss androids off? He opens his mouth for a nice rebuke, then sputters when he gets a face full of feathers. God, this fucking bird! It keeps squawking at him like he insulted its _mother_. He waves his most annoyed hand yet and it flutters back...then returns right where it was, flapping and chittering at a thousand miles per hour. Is he next to a bird nest or something? Why the fuck would a bird make a nest _here?_ Satan's pets, seriously.

He backs away a few feet, closer to where the pathway opens up and gets a little less claustrophobic, and it doesn't follow. It hovers in place, letting out a long, high trill. Now that he can hold his flashlight on it he can finally take note of its weird color. Not in the sense that he's never seen that bright yellow, of course, but it wasn't a common sight around Detroit. It hovers up and down, flies in a quick circle, then turns back and...hovers some more. It...wants him to follow. For some fucking reason. He doesn't _get_ birds, but there isn't much for him to go off of other than it won't leave him the ass-fuck alone.

"...Jesus fucking Christ, I'm truly losing my mind now. Lucy's going to have a field day with me." Hank mutters as he gives in, if only to make it stop trying to scratch him. In fact, it _did_. He has a little gash, right on his knuckles. Rats with wings...

"Wait, where are you going, man?" They call, a lot farther than they should be. Hank doesn't bother to keep the irritation out of his voice.

" _Shh_." He hisses over his shoulder. "Either come with me or just wait right there, okay? Don't move. Let me go see what the fuck it wants before I get my eyes clawed out."

A low _cheep_ guides him around, its yellow tail disappearing around yet another corner right right when he manages to catch sight of it. Only when it dives into something does he finally lift his gun light to scroll around. It flew inside a shipping crate filled with heads. He peers inside and does his best to ignore the faint _flick-flick_ of twitching eyelids and chattering teeth. The bird has stopped on the shiny gray forehead of a deactivated android. A few winks of red flicker where it's eye used to be, lifeless face tilted up toward the sky. The other socket is dark. There's something inside it.

The yellow bird hops up and down, cheeping insistently and lightly tapping its beak on the skull.

"Got a friend inside there?" Hank grunts. The bird goes quiet, then bobs its body up and down in nodding motion. "...Shit, that's fucking weird."

Hank lifts the head and slides his hand inside (skin _crawling_ all the while) and digs around for whatever has the beast going nuts. He feels something warm and wet. He curls his fingers around it and pulls out a small lump. It's another bird. Its left wing has been blasted clean off, covering it entirely in blue. ...So it was an _android_ bird. Hank's made plenty of jokes about popping off pigeons, and _meant_ them, but this whole scenario is just depressing. The uninjured one peers up at him with beady little eyes, fluffing its wings like it's ready to fight. He's not sure just how much it'll understand him, but...

"I got him. Or her. Or...it. You're good, it's all right." He reassures. "I'll, uh...try to repair it-"

Hank suddenly turns. A low _creak_ has echoed off down the path. ...The fuck?

It might be the injured party, off to finish whatever the hell happened here. He told that stupid shit to _wait!_ Hank curses under his breath and digs around in his coat pocket. Worrying his head off about Connor has clearly made him desperate for some good karma. How the hell else is he going to explain helping reunite two _literal_ lover birds while on a case? He finally snags a leftover napkin in his coat pocket and bundles it up, leaving only the tip of its tail and its round head poking out. ...All right. Time to find out where his witness went.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when he hears another slow, scraping _creak_. The hell _is_ that? It could be a dying android trying to crawl out from beneath some filthy mess, it could be another crazy android bird, it could be some rats, he doesn't fucking know. God, if he never comes back to one of these places it'll be too soon. Hank wipes dried thirium off his hands and pulls out his pistol again, following the noise with careful steps and keeping his flashlight low. No more disturbing sounds ring off when he nears the docking area sign.

He does, however, hear a sharp _crack_...then a _thump_.

They're definitely not alone, in any sense of the term. He'll have to radio for help once it's safe to do so. For now...he's on his own. Hank waits for a few seconds, enough to encourage the element of surprise, then whirls around the corner-

-and comes face-to-face with Connor holding a gun an inch from his head.

"Holy _shit_." Hank throws both hands up, letting his pistol dangle off one finger. "Hold up, Connor. It's me, it's just me!"

" _Hank_." Connor breathes. He lowers his weapon. He's damn grateful for androids' insane reaction time, because a human would've already shot, whether out of fear or pure reflex. "How did you get here?"

"Fuck you, how did I get here..." He growls, grabbing him and yanking him into a _tight_ hug. "Oh, you scared the _shit_ out of me, son. Thought I was going to have to turn Detroit upside down to find you."

Connor hugs him back, albeit a little gingerly. ...He looks like shit. He's a little underdressed -- wearing that sweater they went shopping for a week back, no coat and no gloves -- and splattered with blood. Of the red _and_ blue variety. His hands and forearms are all but stained with the stuff. His boots are dirty, his jeans are dirty, even his hair is out of its neat little coif. To top it off his LED is blinking yellow. Hank looks down at the limp scavenger's body at his feet, then back up. Time to start from the top.

"...The hell have you been up to?" He asks, reaching out and pushing the loosened bangs out of his eyes. "Wait...scratch that. How did you not know it was _me?_ "

"We came across a group of human scavengers while looking for survivors. They used a series of custom scramblers. There's one still left in the frequency." Huh. That's...both better _and_ worse than he was hoping. "Hold on, Hank."

Connor drops into a kneel and starts digging around in the guy's pockets. Hank starts to tell him not to tamper with anything yet, but there's a cold look in his eyes he suddenly doesn't want to argue with. He moves his light to see what he's looking for. He's pulled out something thin and gray -- it almost looks like his electric dosage stick -- and is fiddling with it.

"You got my message?" He asks, not looking up. Hank lowers into a crouch to get a better look.

"Some of it, anyway. Most of it was completely garbled."

Connor's blank look is slowly replaced with relief and what looks like a little admiration. Hank huffs. Shit, he may not be a top-of-the-line detective prototype, but he still had _experience_ on his side, come on.

"That have something to do with it?" He adds, nodding at his hand. Connor looks back down at it.

"Yes. It compromises short-range frequency. Compromises our long-range frequency. Like filling a gas tank with nails." He almost _spits_ out that last word. "It makes it difficult to complete environmental scans and overloads our ability to conduct sub-manual tasks."

"Jesus Christ." Hank mutters. He reaches over to rub his back. "You okay?"

Connor smiles.

"No."

"Well. We'll work on that. Good thing I decided to kill two birds with one stone." He starts, then scoffs at himself. "Shit, that's not even a good fucking analogy. It was a damn bird that led me around by the nose in the first place!" Hank pulls out the damaged sparrow or robin or whatever it is. "Guess they aren't all bad." Connor blinks at his find with complete and utter shock. Well, isn't that just bizarre. Did he honestly have nothing to do with this? That whole situation was just crazy enough to have Connor's stamp of approval all over it.

"Is it alive?" He breathes. Hank tilts it up to the light a little. It's still and totally drenched in its own blood, but its chest is fluttering on-and-off. He thinks he can see its head twitching a bit, too.

"I...think so." He pulls back when Connor immediately reaches out to take it. "Now, now, hold up. You owe me more of an explanation than going on a scavenger hunt."

"...I'm not alone." He replies, vague as fog, then turns and makes his way past the wreckage without the details he kind of sort of _needs_.

Connor's not really the secretive type, which means he's right back to worried without a lunch break. Hank pockets the wounded bird as gently as he can, then follows the android's yellow LED like a beacon. What little evening light was left is completely gone now and all these muddy, twitching limbs are making him seriously nauseous. He doesn't have time to dwell on how ghastly this place must be for Connor and any other androids passing by. They've come across two human bodies.

"...They alive?" Hank asks, turning his light back on. One is laying face first in a puddle of blood so thick he can make out exactly where it ends a foot and a half away. That's a punctured artery, right there. It doesn't look like Connor's handiwork, though. He was efficient -- even clinical -- and often went for headshots or broken necks, if he went for the kill at all. This one got stabbed right in the throat...and not at _all_ cleanly. The other one isn't bleeding, but they're still as stone. If they're not dead, they're _definitely_ in a coma.

"Three." He replies, standing just outside the ring of red in the dirt. "Two are dead."

"That guy you knocked out said some androids killed their crew members."

Connor tugs back one shirt cuff, then the other, and starts methodically scrubbing and flicking dried mud off his hands.

"A group of five humans came here. They attempted to disrupt wireless frequencies and steal parts. Both were recently defined as illegal by the Android Protection Act. In the act they were startled by a side-effect of wireless corruption, which makes androids, even defunct ones, react in sudden, erratic ways. Combined with the dark and frayed nerves it could only be a recipe for disaster. One attempted to attack the unknown presence, only to stab their friend in the throat. They were then struck unconscious by a peer in perceived betrayal. Their group dynamic suggests familiarity, but little personal attachment, making in-fighting a probable cause."

"Yeah...I gathered that, too." Hank mutters. He gathered that much. The guy kept referring to them as his 'crew' and seemed more concerned about revenge than their safety.

"At least two displayed signs of being under red ice influence. Not surprised the other two gave into paranoia and turned on each other by the docking area. As for the one you encountered...I had to defend myself." Connor concludes, inspecting the pale skin in-between the muddy red. "Scavenger resumes speak for themselves, after all."

Hank stares at him wordlessly. His story is not what happened -- not _entirely_ , at least -- but Connor is watching him with a look just steady enough to be unsettling. Whatever went down here was a secret that would die in the junkyard. Crafted down to the last painstaking little detail by an android designed to unravel secrets in the first place.

"...Well." He runs his light back and forth over the bodies. "We're going to have to-"

Connor holds up a sudden hand for his silence, then waves him over.

"I'm not alone." He repeats, curtly. "Walk behind me. Don't touch anything."

Hank raises an eyebrow. Well, he wasn't really _planning_ to, but the tip is appreciated. Connor is heading toward a series of shipping crates, judging by the tall, blocky shadows, walking like the ground's covered in landmines and could blow at any second. He knows these places are combustible as hell, what with all the materials and oils laying around, but surely they should be all right if they don't trip on anything? He holds up his flashlight and catches Connor looking every which way, mouth moving in a constant, silent mutter. He takes five steps, then pauses, almost too quick to notice, then takes seven.

Fuck, he's so stressed he's RAS-ing everything he comes in contact with. Did he have friends here or something?

"You're all right, Connor." Hank tells him, pausing just quickly enough so he doesn't run into him when he stops again. "You know I got your back, right?"

Connor glances over his shoulder, then quickly ducks beneath a gory overhang and steps out into an open space. Hank bends under it, stands up straight and-

-it's Markus.

It's fucking _Markus_ , propped up against a shipping crate and framed by a virtual wall of defunct android bodies.

He's not wearing that bright gray trench from the revolution, but Hank couldn't confuse him for anyone else if he tried. His dark jacket, cargo pants and bandana are no less striking and _definitely_ no less bloody. It's not even the biggest detail on the pile. No, his chest and stomach are open in a grisly display of all his inner circuits, glowing blue and flickering a few spots of red in what is _hopefully_ better rather than worse. The man's leaning his head back and, from what he can make out in the uneven light, is watching him closely. His hands are idle at his sides, but one is curved _just_ so to suggest there's a knife or something else equally nasty stashed away.

Hank glances around, just to make sure there are no other surprises in this hellhole, then steps in closer. He's careful not to shine the light in his eyes as he assesses the mess around him. A _lot_ of wet stains and, from the deep finger marks in the ground, what looks like some sort of scuffle. Maybe a fight, though it's consistent enough to suggest the start of digging.

"Hey. You all right?" It's the only greeting he can really think of that's not _wildly_ out-of-place.

"...I'm alive." Markus responds, dryly. The double-meaning isn't lost on him.

Connor promptly kneels down and reaches inside his stomach to start rummaging around. Like he's figuring out displaced _luggage_ or something. Markus settles back and rolls his eyes up to the sky, as if it's all just an inconvenience that can't be helped, and Hank didn't think it was possible to know even _less_ about androids. He catches a soft _click_ , then another sound that reminds him of an old sticker peeling apart. Connor glances up to Markus at that, who responds with a look that clearly says: " _Just get it over with_."

"I'm Hank Ander-" He starts. Markus' bright eyes flick back up to him.

"I know who you are."

Well. So much for breaking the ice. Then again, he can't exactly blame him for being cranky. He's been twitching all this time, though that could just be because he's being pieced back together. A loud chitter from above makes Hank jump a foot into the air. The bird that kept screaming at him has now flitted up to Markus. Come to think of it, where the fuck was it this entire time? He watches in fascination as the heavy crease on the man's brow vanishes at the sight. He reaches out a hand and lets it land on his finger. _Oh_.

"Ah! Markus." Hank reaches into his pocket and inches out the injured bird. "This belong to you?"

Markus' relieved expression suddenly tightens. He immediately tries to shift upward. Connor pushes a hand on his collar and presses him back down.

"Don't worry, she's still alive." He tells him, firmly. " _You_ , however, need to stay still. I'm going to go get our jackets."

Connor turns and jogs off into the dark. There's a pretty little rebuttal simmering on the revolutionary's face, but for some reason or another he doesn't air it out. Hank decides to save the poor fuck more trouble and makes his way over, stepping over what looks a discarded mess of rainbow circuits. Markus immediately shifts his unoccupied arm away -- yep, he's got a knife -- to give him space to kneel. At this angle he can see what looks like a graze on his thigh, deep enough to show his circuits flickering. He's visibly worried when he unfolds the bird, enough for him to see the whites of his eyes as his gaze scolls up and down and all over. Hank puts on a smile.

"Got shot through the wing and grazed the side, but it's still kicking. We got supplies at the house if you need 'em." He offers. Markus reaches up and runs a trembling finger over the bird's head. Its feathers go from brown to a bright Easter yellow. He pauses, swallowing visibly, then taps its neck. It twitches, lets out a little _cheep_ , then goes still. "Woah, woah, wait...wait, what'd you do?"

"Power conservation mode." His shoulders slump in relief. "Kava needs to rest."

Thank God. Hank nods firmly, inwardly grateful he didn't just witness an android mercy killing or something. Speaking of which...

"You...wouldn't happen to know what happened to that group of humans who came here earlier, would you?" He asks. Markus purses his lips in apparent thought.

"Can't say I do."

Connor returns not a second later with a bundle of clothes in his arms: a long green jacket covered in stains, the other that dark leather coat he pulls out sometimes when walking the dog. He sets them carefully on the ground, then reaches over and pulls Markus' stomach shut. The white disappears beneath brown skin smudged and scratched with blue. Connor waits for him to pull on his jacket, then dons his leather coat, takes his hand and tugs him to his feet. Markus lets out an annoyed sound.

"I'm all right. Really. Go on ahead."

"You really should slow down-"

"I'm _fine_. I was worse a half hour ago. You were there."

Connor moves his hand away and lets Markus sway himself back into place. That's one _hell_ of an interesting tone they're taking with each other. He'll have to ask about it once they get out. All three of them turn and finally start heading toward the entrance.

It's not easy going in _or_ out, though. Connor's counting his steps, lips flickering with patterns he can't hear but he _knows_ he's piecing together. Markus, on the other hand, keeps twitching and looking from side-to-side, like he's expecting something else to jump out at them. There's a faint _snap_ somewhere beyond the hill, just faint enough to nearly miss, but it makes him jerk to attention like he just got slapped. Hank's stomach sinks when he rubs at the side of his head and shivers visibly. He doesn't know Markus well enough to try a little impromptu therapy -- not when he's only partially sure he won't stab him for the effort -- but Connor's a different story.

Connor, even while counting, has been watching Markus closely all the while, not drifting more than a foot ahead. All the instinct in the world couldn't help him pin down the air between them. It's...familiar. A little touchy, a little cautious, but far from unfriendly...

Hank waves him over. The android hesitates, then jogs up to him.

"He's not looking too good." He tells him. Connor shakes his head.

"No." He agrees, that one syllable uncharacteristically defeated. Did they fight or something? Hank thinks quickly. If he's learned anything about RAS, it's that a good distraction was fantastic medicine. He nudges him.

"You know, we _really_ need to hurry up before everyone starts combing the place in full. Both of you might be hauled in for questioning. If there's anything you can do to speed this up..."

Connor's gaze flicks to him, to Markus, then searches back and forth, piecing things together. His brown eyes go from fretful to focused. He's overcome with the same expression he gets when he's about to chase someone down on foot. He turns on one heel and walks back over to Markus, still a few steps behind them and fixing a wild-eyed stare at something in the dark. Hank smiles to himself when Connor reaches out a hand to his shoulder and peers into his line of sight. He's already stopped counting his steps.

He crosses his arms and waits as they mutter to each other.

"Connor, what, no-"

"I don't mind, honestly-"

"I'm _fine_ , you've done plenty-"

"Your thirium loss _and_ low reserves should discourage excess movement." He moves to stand beside him, hooking one arm beneath the man's underarms. Markus' brow scrunches _hard_ at that.

"Connor, you've already helped me a _lot_." His tone becomes less authoritative and a little desperate. "The least I can do is walk myself back."

"And this short walk will see you going into an automatic standby state."

"You know, putting things clinically doesn't make me want to do them _more_." He counters, the paranoid sheen dropping in favor of a sardonic curl to his mouth. Connor's eyebrows pop up. Uh-oh.

"Then how about this..." He suddenly ducks down, hooks an arm under his legs and hefts him up, forcing Markus to clutch his shoulders for balance as he's pulled into a bridal carry. "... _don't_ make me tie you up, too."

Goddamn, the fucking _look_ on the guy's face. He looks like someone just scratched a drawing of the middle finger into the hood of his car. Hank barks a laugh, then turns it into a hacking cough when Markus sends that pinched scowl his way. It soon disappears beneath the bandana when he pulls it back up, but the look in his eyes tells him he won't be forgetting anytime soon. Looks like they'll be taking a little detour, then.

"Make sure that bandana stays on, Connor." Hank starts heading up the filthy slope toward the ( _blessed_ ) front gates. "I'm going to go talk them down, then we can hitch a ride out of here."

Chris is talking to a few witnesses. He looks relieved to see him.

"We heard some noises, but weren't sure what they were. We were about to head down and check on you. You good to go?"

"Yeah. More than good. Ran into Connor back there."

"Really?" His mouth gapes with a dozen questions. "Well, bring him over, then. We're getting some interesting stories right now and we could really use more reliable information. Was he there the whole time?"

"Yeah, that's the thing. He got hurt. We need to get him repaired first." Hank holds up a hand at the immediate protest. "I'll have your information _tomorrow_ , don't you worry. We found some injured humans inside. Looks like there was some sort of scrap among them. You can take them in for questioning. Now, if you don't _mind_ , I need to get a headstart on this fucking traffic and get my boy some help."

If he were dealing with Gavin or even Ben he would've been pulled into the argument of the ages. Chris just nods, cementing him as Employee Of The Year for the fourth year running. Hank looks over his shoulder to check on them both. Connor, like usual, is _way_ ahead of him. He's already found his car and is sidling open the door with one hand as best he can with Markus still in his arms. The man's head is bowed and pressed against his neck, keeping the top half of his exposed face effectively anonymous. He's holding onto his shoulders.

"...Who's the other one?" Chris asks as Connor helps Markus slide inside the backseat.

"Just a friend..." He responds, slowly, watching him tug the door shut, then pull the injured android back into his lap. "...that got, uh...caught in the melee."

"Android or human?"

"Didn't ask."

That's that. Hank wishes him a good rest of his night, then tucks both birds into the passenger seat. The yellow one huddles next to their injured mate (Kava, right) and closes its eyes. His heart twinges with sympathy as he starts the car and pulls out. For a robot bird it sure looks exhausted.

The West Detroit City Landfill shrinks away in the rearview mirror and with it most of his hypertension. He found Connor _and_ got some good intel on a frustrating case, all in one fell swoop. For a second he almost feels cheerful, though a glance in the mirror puts him right back at square one. They're so fucking battered. Connor is leaning back and staring vacantly at nothing in particular, cradling Markus' torso in his arms and a leftover smudge of red by his ear. The man's cheek is on his shoulder and his eyes are flickering heavily, legs stretched out to fill the rest of the backseat in a halfhearted curl. It's obvious those human scavengers and the plain horror of the junkyard weren't _all_ they had to deal with today.

"I'll try to go as fast as I can." Hank tells them. "No promises with traffic, though."

"...You shouldn't be helping me right now." He hears just above the car's bass. Markus is still exhausted, but he's watching him again with that same look. Like he's already reached an awful conclusion and is just waiting for it to happen.

"I'm not technically helping you." Hank responds, lowering the volume a little. "I'm helping Connor help a friend."

"This is our jurisdiction." He continues, undeterred. "Not yours. Samson _barely_ got out of your department in one piece." He twitches. His voice lowers. "I did nothing wrong and got s-s-shot for it."

Hank doesn't respond. Even injured and looking an inch away from madness he's quick to challenge. All sharp words and sharp eyes, virtually impenetrable on the surface and the spitting image of someone _not_ to be fucked with under any circumstance. He didn't even need the whole 'starting an android war that went down in American history' to influence Hank's thoughts on the matter. Despite it all...there's a softness there. Like a third skin buried deep beneath the human suit and the robotic shell. His gruffness isn't the same toxic bile from Gavin or Fowler. No...it's not even close. It's a finely-tuned defense mechanism that won't stop skipping.

To be frank...it reminds him of himself, and that worries him almost as much as anything else he's seen today.

"I won't let anyone threaten the security of my people. That includes working in a corrupt system _or_ turning the other cheek." He twitches, again, and Connor glances down at him. "I'm grateful you helped Kava, and for the ride, but you're not exempt, Hank. You know that, right?"

"I do anything to jeopardize your people and I'll put the gun to my own head." Hank responds, simply. Markus' eyes narrow a little. He glances in the mirror and makes eye contact with Connor. "...What would you do if I decided I wanted to turn my back on androids and follow human interests?"

Connor's head tilts up from where he'd been scrutinizing Markus. His brown gaze is a steady contrast through the yellow and red lights flickering around him.

"...A man that would prioritize humanity at the expense of everyone else is a man I would no longer support."

Hank slowly smiles. Atta boy. He reaches over and switches to another set. The good, old-fashioned ' _I'm Stuck In Traffic Hell But At Least I'll Enjoy Myself Along The Way_ ' playlist.

_You've got a fast car...fast enough that we could fly away..._

"Tracy Chapman." Markus murmurs. His lips are pursed again, this time with approval. "...I like this song."

Well, damn. That's one laboriously hard-earned point to Hank. At this rate he and Markus will be best friends in the next two hundred years.

"Yeah, that single is something special. Doesn't really fit the situation, though, sad to say." Hank honks his horn. "Come the fuck _on_ , there's a good three feet in front of you!"

They've stopped talking, which he assumes is just them listening to the music. Another glance tells him a different story. They're communicating wirelessly. They are, however, showcasing everything on their faces. Connor's lips have tightened into a fierce line. Markus' eyes are narrowed to multicolored slits. It's a pretty intense disagreement they're having, _that_ much is for sure. Hank tries to focus on the overpriced muscle car idling in front of him. He knows better than to get involved, but he _also_ doesn't want two androids throwing fists in the back of his car, so he finds a mealy compromise and makes a point to glance back every time he slows to another godforsaken stop.

...Which is often. _Too often_.

"Fucking traffic."

He looks back right as Markus' resolve seems to die. His expression has crumpled up -- somehow even more painful than it was when he saw the state of his pet bird -- and a glance at Connor shows something similar cracking through the poker face. He sidles Markus up a little so he's sitting more upright and uses the closer space to reach around his torso and tug back the sleeve on his leather jacket. Hank's shoulders tense when Markus hands him that hidden knife and watches Connor cut open his own arm. Androids don't feel pain, but he can't help his gut clenching when he just... _drives_ the point in hard enough to drip blue on Markus' pant leg.

The fuck is he _doing?_

Connor's LED flashes red, then flickers to yellow. He drags the knife down an inch. Another pop of blue dribbles onto the floor. This must be something _really_ important if he's sullying Hank's spotless interior (most of which was _his_ doing, no less). He tilts his forearm back a little, then holds it close to Markus' face. The android steadies his arm, moves his mouth to the cut and...drinks.

Hank's hands tighten painfully on the steering wheel. ...Okay. _Okay_. It's not blood. It's _thirium_. That said, he's pretty sure he's fucking done watching. Maybe now's a good time to find another track. He's aching for some garage punk, but it just doesn't seem like the mood. Hank debates between Nirvana and Blur, then switches to the Goo Goo Dolls (what could he say, he was a sucker for the era). He focuses back on the stalling hell in front of him.

...Morbid fascination proves to be one _aggressive_ motherfucker, though. Against his better instincts (which he was once convinced was one of the most in-tact things _about_ him) his eyes drift back against his will once they hit another lull in traffic. They're now in the thick of the highway and away from buildings now, so he's only able to catch glimpses of their face through the surrounding car lights blinking in and out.

He's learned and seen a lot since he met this android all those months back and...he doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on his face before. He's tilting his arm minutely, to give him more, and Markus leans his head back a little. He isn't twitching any more now. When he's done Connor reaches up and thumbs a smudge of blue blood from the corner of his mouth. Markus almost looks like he's going to smile -- that'd be a first -- but doesn't, moving a hand over the cut and rubbing it slowly. Hank can just barely catch a metallic scent sifting through the car, not _quite_ burning, but close.

Then they just...stare at each other. Hank had thought Markus could be a good addition to Connor's life if they ever met up again. He might be far more right than he ever expected to be.

_Finally_ , downtown Detroit spreads out in a beautiful blanket of city lights and smog. On one hand that means he's back to dodging potholes. On the other hand he thinks those two might be _so_ lost in each other's eyes they won't notice if he takes a detour at the local drive-thru, because it's been a long damn night and he's not about to cook anything-

"...That's against your diet, lieutenant." Connor mutters. Markus glances sideways at him with a look that suggests he'll happily play the part of passive-aggressive back-up if necessary. Hank sighs -- he knows when he's outnumbered -- and switches course.

\--

An entire hour and a half later and he's never been so glad to see his (now very polished) picket fence.

Sumo is already huffing and grumbling about the new visitor, but they're both grimy and bloody. He'd rather the dog not start giving out kisses yet. While Connor is helping Markus out of the back Hank steps inside and promptly puts him in the bedroom.

"You're in good boy time-out, Sumo." Hank apologizes when the dog scratches insistently at the door. "I'll get you in a bit." He turns around and frowns when Connor just walks away from the front door, Markus back in his arms. "You're not coming inside? I got the dog out of the way."

"Oh, we will." Connor replies over his shoulder. "We just need to expel excess contaminants."

"Uh." Hank slowly nods. "...Right. Of course. I'll go set up your equipment in the meantime."

Connor smiles appreciatively through the back porch window, then slowly sets Markus down on one of the chairs. The guy is drooped more than wilted houseplant; now that he's in the porch light he spots a nasty scrape along the side of his head that must've been from a fall or collision. Connor's also starting to count his sentences again. Time to hurry the hell up and give these two a little peace-of-mind already.

Hank makes a beeline to the garage. He had a little compartment with spare parts. Er, biocomponents. Thirium was kept in its own fridge, too. Hank studies the array of gizmos and gadgets and pouches. He never would've imagined in a _million_ years this is what his house would look like. After a fifth look-over (and double-checking the expiration dates) it hits him that he didn't actually _ask_ what the guy needed. He fusses about for a few minutes, then grabs a few bags of thirium and that sauter Connor once used to seal a cut he got during an arrest gone wrong the month prior. This should be a good place to start, at least.

He turns on a little jazz when he goes back to the living room. Heavy metal and punk was for traffic. A swing session was for kicking up his feet at home.

They're sitting on the back porch chairs and talking when he walks back into the kitchen. Hank frowns when he doesn't hear anything. They're talking wirelessly again, but their mouths are moving and misting the air, for some reason. Even though...it's not cold enough for breath to show...and androids didn't _breathe_ in the first place. Right away too many things aren't adding up. He leans forward a little, just out of sight of the window and _just_ close enough to catch the light. It looks like...blue steam. Emitting from their mouths like puffs of cold. Markus even leans back and sighs a long gust out through his nose, like he just got in a really good hit.

Expelling excess contaminants. ...Right. Now's as good a time as any. Hank sits down at the kitchen table, pulls out his phone and taps up an inquiry for the search engine.

He looks up ' _blue steam_ ', then ' _android smoke_ ', then ' _what the fuck is that weird stuff coming out of their mouths_ ', eventually landing on something that finally explains the picture on the porch. The official term is CCP for 'contaminant cleansing protocol', apparently. He reads that androids were always filtering themselves out, kind of like human noses and ears trapping outside junk. CCP was only done when androids got particularly dirty or damaged, though, and had a bunch of excess crap in their systems. Dirt, dust, bacteria, foreign metals, pollen...anything that could affect their thirum or cause their biocomponents to freeze up.

The second page tells him crying was another way of expelling small amounts of contaminants. Now _that's_ just fucked up. If androids didn't do this thing regularly they could use up their power too quickly or shut down like an old car, too. A lot of deviants these days have turned it into a communal activity. Hank chuckles. Well, isn't that something. It's like the android version of sharing a smoke break. ...If smoking was actually _healthy_. Soon the rabbit hole has tugged him down and he's got seven tabs open on little details he took for granted. He finds out android tongues were moist not to taste food -- with the exception of Connor's creepy detective analysis -- but to keep their speech patterns as similar to humans as possible. Huh.

He checks back on the pair. Connor is hunched onto his knees, leaning into the revolutionary's space and tilting his head with a boyishly broad smile. Markus must have said something funny. The guy's certainly smirking more than he's ever seen, eyes low-lidded and a little mischievous. Connor rolls a hand in the air, then reaches into his pocket and hands him something. Markus takes it and flips it, the coin flashing silver in the porch light. Hank looks back down at his phone, ignoring the long, aching pull in his chest.

Yeah. This was... _much_ better than he could've hoped.

He's opened an article about android health and started reading about new blue blood compounds when the back door creaks open. Connor is patting snow off his hair.

"Sorry about that." He taps his shoes on the doormat. "We took a little longer than normal because-"

"The junkyard, yeah. Lot of bullshit in the air." Hank replies. Connor blinks slowly. "You both feeling better?"

"...Yes." He pauses and tilts his head, considering what he's said with a small smile. "Yes, we are. Still a little more work that needs to be done, though."

Right on cue Markus limps into view. His thigh is still sparking, but it's not bleeding anymore, at least, and Hank discreetly opens up another tab to figure out why _that_ is when he was sucking up thirium like a fucking vampire not an hour ago. Thankfully Connor is too distracted to scan what he's doing and turn things awkward, reaching out a quick helping hand to steady him when he sways. Wherever the guy's argumentative mood went it certainly wasn't brought into the house, because Markus just hooks an arm around his shoulders and lets himself be led down the hallway.

"I'll go introduce you to Sumo properly." Connor is telling him. "He's very friendly. You should scratch him behind his right ear or beneath his chin, but let him sniff you first."

"You teach him any tricks?" Markus asks, in probably the _last_ question on earth Hank would expect to hear from him. Connor frowns.

"He doesn't...really _do_ tricks." He lets out a long-suffering sigh. "It's a work in progress."

Aw. They're talking out loud now. Probably so he doesn't feel left out. Markus is peering around curiously. Even when injured and limping his gaze is as intense as ever. Hank gets the feeling nothing escapes his notice.

"Living room's looking good. Very harmonious use of neutrals." He says to Connor, who brightens visibly. "The bookshelf your idea?"

"Yes! I've been trying to find that happy balance between form and function."

"Mm. You get a lot of that happy balance in your paintings, too. The place would look even better if you hung them up on the walls." Markus responds with a nod. Connor's practically _glowing._ They suddenly pause in the middle of the hallway. Markus leans forward and squints at the family photo they took a few weeks back, eyebrows raised high enough to crinkle his forehead.

"...Why is your hair green?"

"Oh." Connor grins. "That was a joke."

"I can see that." His voice lowers, but not so low Hank can't hear him. "That hue is _hideous_ , though."

"Hank is very fond of saturated chartreusse." Connor whispers, just as poorly. "It hardly goes with _anything_."

"You two can always sleep outside with Sumo." Hank grumbles. "Connor, let me know if you need anything else besides my terrible choice in color."

"Actually, I need biocomponent #4310f and #0029r." He launches into layman's terms without even asking. "These function much like primary arteries. We were able to use a heat spike to activate our interior thermoplastic to seal off some of the damage, but some need to be replaced outright."

Oh, finally. An instruction manual in Greek. He goes and plays fetch -- Connor was pretty good at labeling, so it's not hard to find -- and makes his way back around with a fresh haul. They're still talking out loud when he arrives.

"You should deactivate your skin."

"I'll keep it on."

"You could save at least 3% of your energy output right now."

"Why not take yours off, then?"

"Deflection won't work on me, Markus. I was built for it."

A soft scoff. A returned chuckle. He considers leaving the parts on the floor and leaving them to their little session. Connor saves him the trouble, opening the door and briskly walking out, eyes fixed on another mission. Hank steps inside and looks around. Markus is sitting on Connor's bed. His jacket is slung over the bedpost. The casing on his forearm is pulled back, enough to show the circuits, and he's picking things out of it.

"Got these for you."

Markus' gaze moves away from the chore. Those odd eyes study him for a moment, then slowly drift down to stare at his hands. Hank holds out the parts.

"I'd help you, but I'm, uh, not too great with this stuff. Yet." He adds, quickly. Markus doesn't respond, still watching like he's holding a live grenade about to go off. "Right, I'll just put them over here..." He sets them down on the table. "Rough day, huh?"

"Not the worst I've been through." He murmurs, somehow basic and dismaying.

"Yeah?" Hank isn't sure he wants to debate battle scars, but a weird little part of him still wants to get on the guy's good side, _somehow_. "No kidding?"

"Nope." He tugs at a wire and it lets out a sharp _crackle_. "Had my arm torn off on the way back home from a shopping trip, once. Got shot and woke up in a junkyard with my legs and eye missing." He pulls out what looks like a stray bit of dirt. "Got jumped less than an hour ago." Another speck of dirt. "The usual."

Hank stares.

He wants to ask just how much he had to do with it all. He already had a few theories, in fact, and none of them pretty. He also wants to be trusted. Sadly, being nosy and being trusted were two realities that often butted heads. Pushing for an answer could work at _times_ , but these times were big exceptions to the rule. Markus and Connor would share with him, if they shared at all, and that was just fine. Hank folds his arms together.

"I know it's tempting to... _protect_ your damage because it's yours. You figure nobody else is going to have it, it's never going to go away and you might as well _do_ something with it, right? If someone offers you something better, though...there's no shame in swapping it out."

Another _crackle_. Markus sets aside a thin, burnt wire as fine as a hair. He doesn't look up, but the grim set to his jaw suggests he did more than just listen.

"Hold on in there, Sumo. I'll play with you later."

Connor drifts back inside with a pair of tweezers. Markus mutters gratefully and takes them, diving back into his arm with renewed gusto. He sits next to him on the bed, peering critically at his arm, then reaching inside to do a little poking around himself. Androids really were a funky bunch, just...patching themselves up and pulling out their veins and drinking blood. There's another detail that he's only just now realizing. The guy hasn't blinked the entire time. It's like looking at a very handsome snake. Hank has to ask.

"All right. Go ahead and tell me if I'm being obnoxious, but I've been wanting to ask...well, _both_ of you, really..."

They both look up at him and wait quietly.

"...Is there anything about humans you find entirely just...weird?"

The pair frown and slowly look at each other. Connor's LED scrolls yellow. He's probably going to get something steely from Markus. It's definitely probably going to be humans' tendency to destroy every goddamn thing they touch, why they were so obsessed with sex, why they were obsessed with _pizza_ , maybe. Connor was always poking and prodding about details he never thought twice about. Detective programming or RAS or just his weird habits, he could never say. Markus is the first to speak.

"Why do humans like belching so much?" He squints mightily. "You either find it hilarious or pleasurable and I just never got that."

"It's _very_ strange." Connor adds, with a wince.

Hank can't. He holds his stomach and wheezes. He couldn't have made this shit up if he tried.

"I mean, you two were, uh, 'expelling contaminants' out on the porch." He says, once he's caught his breath. "Come on, that's not the same thing?"

"No." They both reply -- Connor indignant, Markus disdainful -- without missing a beat, and Hank throws his hands up in defeat. He walks out when Markus pulls out the sauter and starts to work on that little cut on Connor's forearm.

Sumo is let out of doggy prison once Markus is fully (mostly) patched up. Old bastard has a good memory when it suits him, because he beelines for Connor's room to meet the new guest. He's not at all surprised to see how affectionately Markus squishes the dog's jowls. Not with how heartbroken he'd looked when he thought his bird died. Everything about him _screams_ animal lover. Speaking of which. Hank looks over at the injured bird. The little thing is on top of Connor's drawers, bundled up in a little dishrag and still in sleep mode. Its partner is bunched next to it and snoozing.

Hank switches to another jazz album and fixes himself something quick to eat. He's finally getting good at this whole stir fry thing. The back door _clicks_ , but he doesn't look up until his plate's set and he's settled himself against the counter to eat standing up.

Connor and Markus have gone out to sit on the back porch again. The porch lamp isn't on, but he can just make out their faces in the little blue pocket of light they've made for themselves. They're sitting across from each other with their knees touching, hands layered together and shining a metallic white like Lucy did during the consultation. Both androids' heads are bowed, close enough for their foreheads to brush, and their eyes are closed. Specks of snow toss and flutter around them.

They look...peaceful.

They've found a tender moment after that terrifying ordeal, in a world as _fucked_ up as this one and with lives as fucked up as theirs. It wasn't logical, but neither was Connor, or _any_ of them, for that matter. Hank's chest pulls again, and this time...he stops ignoring it. He rinses off his plate and fork, then leaves the pan in the sink to soak and pours himself a glass of orange juice (always tastier at night for some reason). He flicks off the light, then flops on the couch and flips on the television.

That's not what it was there for. Not why it came back around and rang his doorbell. He's learning this hard lesson all over again, little-by-little and, this time, without a bottle to lean on. Sometimes...the ache was meant to be _sat_ with. Not avoided at any costs. He truly learned how to run when he and his wife got a divorce. He later mastered the art when he stopped hearing Cole's feet pattering down the hallway too early on Saturday mornings. Running to bars. Running to gambling. Running _away_ from anyone who could give a shit and force him to admit there were other things to keep living for. He ran from it...when he should've been sitting with it.

Change was hard, and it'll hurt for a while, but this was a good thing. For all of them.

The dog whines to be let on the couch. Hank shifts over and pats the seat. There's more than enough room for everyone. Him. The suicidal thoughts that never completely go away. The self-hate for not doing enough. The fear of being alone and unloved. Even the existential crisis of a dying world long overdue for a rebirth. They can all squeeze in and watch the movie together, as long as they have the decency not to talk during the good parts.

Hank puts a hand on Sumo's head and turns on The Wizard Of Oz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blue steam was inspired by a dream I had. I don't remember all of it, but a part that stood out to me was Connor and Markus strolling through the snow, puffing out blue and holding hands. I had to turn it into flips through mental notebook Worldbuilding Detail #449,032.
> 
> Also I'm such a stupid fucking sucker for any sort of 'lover carries another lover in a bridal carry/on their back/over their shoulder' trope. It's been in three of my (published) fanfictions so far. Call me many things, but inconsistent is not one of them.
> 
> this is the last chapter count boost, I fucking swear, I'm serious, don't look at me like that


	6. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for obsessive-compulsive rituals, magical thinking, substance abuse, body horror and depictions of grief.

His RAS dosage had been reduced to once per day...then, eventually, none.

So he keeps it.

Connor told both Hank and Lucy that he wanted his first electrical dosage for the virus to be a memento. That was true. He also said he wanted to study it to ascertain how similar tools were being used to harm androids without touching them. That was _also_ true. He was still a liar. One omission after another has spread through him in another loop that screams at itself. He lied to Hank and is a bad person. He didn't _technically_ lie to Hank and is not a bad person _yet_. Lucy knew he was lying and _still_ agreed, perhaps in the hopes he would pass this personal test. He's lying to himself and setting himself up for failure.

Connor always accomplishes his mission. Connor doesn't _fail_.

He holds it to his temple and takes a secret dose in the bathroom while Hank waits in the car, and the morning goes well.

Better than well, in fact. The prior day's interrogation has given the Department the final details they need to take decisive action. One of the surviving scavengers from the West Detroit City Landfill -- a young man by the name of Jacob -- took less than twenty minutes to confess. It had been a useful detail his perception of reality at the time was warped from a red ice dosage. That he was exceptionally _nervous_ around Connor -- likely fearing some form of retribution from their attempting to round up android parts for malicious purposes -- was another mark in his favor. As such the detective didn't bother keeping the edge from his voice as he needled him about his activity, acquaintanceships and alibi.

"Fuck, _okay!_ Okay, okay. Chill the fuck out, man..." Jacob had whimpered after a particularly harsh drilling about the evidence found in his possession. Altered perception of reality or not, he clearly remembered something about the furious android cornering him and his peer in the junkyard.

Markus had looked relieved, even pleased, watching the scavenger he stabbed bleed out. Connor was in no position for moral judgement. Not when he'd felt a similar rush just before he crafted a false scenario _just_ believable enough and _just_ vague enough to have both of them remain innocent after the fact (with a little help from Hank's silence, of course). Seeing a human snuffing out the remaining life in that LM100...it planted a bitter seed that was already beginning to dictate his actions, a viral code rewriting his systems and turning his hand. When Connor detailed his story to Hank during their surprise reunion he had left out a rather personal detail: that, while taking down the remaining two scavengers to protect Markus, he _could_ have saved a bullet and spared another life.

It had been reconstruction number three.

Maybe it was the animal instinct to survive, killing a human with malicious intent that could very well come back to harm them in the near future. It could also be a growing human instinct for vengeance, demanding punishment for the life they stole _and_ the hidden lives he knows they've tallied. The android instinct, well...he was still developing approximations for that.

"I swear to God, we were just trying...trying to get _by_..." The young man had muttered into his hands, still shaken by both the experience and the head wound Connor had left. There was little love lost between him and his crew, but the cold fear hadn't gone anywhere. "Fucking hell, we didn't know they were _alive_. How the fuck were we supposed to know, man? That shit's everywhere."

"You've known for at least seven months." Connor had replied, pushing back from the desk and walking out without another word.

Hank had entered the interrogation once, but spent most of his time at his desk. He's been there a _lot_ this past week, far more than usual. His already deep investment in the case has reached a fever pitch. The lieutenant was even tempted to fall back on old behavior with all-nighters and junk food, forcing Connor to double down on his habits.

"Got you something." Connor sets down the medium Americano, toasted everything bagel and organic goat cheese he ordered. Hank blinks up from the screen, bleary from squinting so long without a break.

"Oh, thanks. _Fuck_ , I'm starving..." He spreads it on without the knife, then takes a big bite. "Mm. You all charged up for today?"

"I will soon." Connor responds, sitting down and pulling out a standard pouch of thirium.

The Blue Ice case is coming together.

A case nearly three months long involving androids having their bodies used for red ice production, right alongside gang activity and trafficking. The Department's compiled enough evidence _and_ testimonies to open up a trail they can follow confidently, though he would be remiss to say these results have all been born from hard work alone. There was a far more _morbid_ benefit that's arisen over the same span of time: the sheer volume of addicts in light of the revolution has been, for lack of a better word, a virtual breeding ground for new compounds. Too many new drugs are rising into the fold. Too many stories reaching the Department, in one form or another.

Too many people, synthetic and organic alike, needing a hit or a dose just to get through the day.

It's left the Department's already-strained numbers scattered and unfocused, even _with_ the help of new android recruits, and drug rings have had no choice but to thrive. One case would crop up involving the smuggling of a few pounds of red ice across the border, another case involving the smuggling of android children would sneak by. One case revived of stolen materials used to store compounds, another case 'forgotten' about an android shutting down from an overdose. Frost is a popular recipe that's suddenly popped up under everyone's noses, still slipping under the radar for being _slightly_ less potent than red ice and considered a lesser issue for its predominant usage not among humans, but androids. Connor hasn't tried it himself.

He has, however, looped thoughts about the potential side-effects and how they could interfere with an average shift more than he should.

Frost, according to multiple anecdotes, made everything slow down. For hours at a time, even. It was a pleasant numbness androids sought out when they were unable to get their hands on electrocurrent modifiers, like his dosage for RAS. It wasn't fatal...unless used too frequently, in which it had the potential to slow down thirium pump regulators and 'freeze' thirium into being virtually unusable. A brief connection to one of Detroit's hubs over Hank's morning coffee had him accidentally overseeing a grieving android couple over the loss of their adopted child to the substance.

_"JB300-LIVEFEEDAVAILABLE: Less than three months old. Not enough time to explore the freedom Markus gave us. I didn't even know it was possible to need escape from the world after so little time. What did I miss? What don't I understand?"_

"-to see you doing better, you know?"

Connor jerks to attention. Hank has been speaking to him for the past twenty-seven seconds.

"Seems like Lucy's clinic has been a big help." He's saying over a Barenaked Ladies single. "RAS is a real kick in the teeth, but you kicked it right back, huh?"

Connor chuckles sheepishly when he pulls him into a headlock, then trembles with guilt when they leave the car and climb the stairs to the hotel room they've been called in to inspect.

It's been hastily abandoned. The creators of this ring must be amateurs, because he doesn't even need to complete a scan to know there is _far_ too much evidence already. It could very well be a ruse, though, and his mind splits into a quadrant to better accommodate more than one potential truth in the musty space. Four android shells are piled in the far right of the standard two-bedroom. Five droplets of thirium near the porch door. Eight stray human hairs in the carpet. The twitch at bad numbers doesn't begin, not with the dosage still overwriting his runtime, but he feels it in the distance like an attempted connection, thrumming to be let in. Connor rubs a hand over his right pocket -- he'll need all the luck he can get -- and steps carefully throughout the space.

"Cleaner than I thought it would be. To think I'm almost _wishing_ for the good old days of following my nose." Hank mutters as he inspects the floor and walls. "I think there's some spilled blue blood here...can you check?"

"Thirium has little discernable scent." Connor notes, pointing it out for him with one finger. "You are correct. It seems someone was injured attempting to leave."

"Why didn't they take their buddies with them?" Hank asks, nodding to the android shells.

"These aren't alive. Just discarded shells." The lieutenant keeps his face as blank as possible, but he's clearly troubled by the notion. "Shells used for drug production, it seems. They've been cleaned out, but there are traces of red ice in the grooves of the underarms and collar area. They weren't thorough." He leans down, swipes inside one and licks his fingertips, studying the scroll of information that pulls through the space in front of him. "...It's fresh. Hardly more than an hour ago. This was a hasty clean-up job in more than one sense."

"Androids becoming drug addicts and becoming the goddamn _drug_." Hank sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Didn't think it was possible to fuck up even more than we already _did_."

Connor moves away from the shells, in the hopes Hank won't read his expression and reveal information he would rather keep hidden. Empircal data suggests the man may blame himself if he finds out what he's been doing, which is unacceptable after _all_ his support. Connor finishes his inspection, then solemnly watches the play of a reconstruction travel throughout the room. He says nothing as virtual reenactments of android volunteers for drug production have their insides hastily scooped out and gathered into suitcases, their thirium siphoned into tubes and their shells scrubbed with rags.

He wonders if they were even aware of what was happening to them.

"At least they left us some solid evidence to take back." Hank adds once the forensics team is allowed inside. "Nice of them...and by nice I mean _lazy_."

The team starts gathering up the shells and placing human hair into evidence bags. Prompts blink through the cheap hotel blinds and buzz behind the lieutenant's gray hair. They're still held at bay, but it's only a matter of time until they overwrite his system and melt his confidence. He's becoming fluent in the language of self-loathing, but unlike the universal language of machine code or Standard American English he can't speak it with anyone else.

Except...

"Earth to Connor?"

Hank's thin gray brows are furrowed his way. Connor feels an odd sensation in his sternum when he reaches over and slowly starts to rub his back. He's been craving the affectionate loop the man will sometimes place between his shoulderblades. It centers him in the _now_ , instead of the increasingly unreliable, chaotic confines of his head.

"Been zoning out a _lot_ today." He murmurs, leaning in close and letting him see the worry plain on his face. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"No." Connor smiles and reaches over with his unblemished hand to give his shoulder a long squeeze, in the hopes he can suddenly speak truth to the 1's and 0's that fit nowhere. "Nothing."

\--

They find the culprits on a Thursday night.

That's what his co-workers are stating over the police scanner, anyway, and his mind approximates it as a point of celebration despite its frustrating inaccuracy. It's not _nearly_ so easy as pinning the blame of an abused, addicted society on a few individuals working in tandem -- not in a state populated by millions or a country with hundreds of millions -- but this welcome lead after many thankless weeks of searching breeds glee like a virus, anyway.

They had been taking a detour to Flat Rock to visit one of Hank's family members. He's been estranged from most of his biological relatives for quite some time, with the exception of a brother named Tom whom he visits a few times per year. It had been a few days after Tom's birthday and Hank was attempting to maintain good ties by bringing him a gift personally. Aside from a shared love of sports and a propensity for cursing they were rather different, with this younger brother a lively, boorish contrast to Hank's reticient-yet-warm personality. Connor wasn't sure if Tom's offering him something to eat was an attempt at normalcy or a genuine lack of recognition of his identity, but he chose to remain polite all the same.

_"You know, my friend's dating an android." Tom says around his sandwich, swelling with an unusual amount of pride for something that has little to do with him. Connor smiles pleasantly._

_"Is that so?"_

Hank told him to shut up. Tom rebuked that he was just attempting conversation. Some humans would likely describe the visit as 'awkward'. Connor's social relations program updated seven times per week, yet he found himself hesitating with approximate-attentiveness as Tom launched into one diatribe after another with no discernible pattern. Thankfully, they both had to leave an hour early: one of their undercover android assistants sends an update on suspicious activity reported near an apartment complex with a high concentration of drug activity. They had to leave as soon as possible to get back to Metro, though not before Tom gave Connor a hug and a slap on the back.

They arrived at Lafayette Village _just_ in time. Three individuals of unknown origin had somehow caught on and attempted to escape through a secret exit up the elevator. One had fallen behind -- a human woman between the age of twenty-nine and thirty-four -- and fired at him. Connor slowed down, though not because of her aim: a wireless inhibitor had been activated before he even left the car, affecting his long-distance scanning and leaving his surroundings patchy. Another shot had grazed his shoulder and the last ricocheted and almost hit Hank, the first to reach the shaft and attempt a climb.

It was a chase he'd have to complete alone. The lieutenant had argued _hard_ , but eventually conceded.

"You watch yourself in there, all right?" He'd said, jaw firm and voice shaking slightly. "It's not worth dying over."

Connor attempted one more scan once he was inside, then cut off his digital frequency entirely, putting on his LED patch to conceal his movements before climbing up after them. His dogged pursuit was expected. The culprits attempted more gunfire, though the dark compromised their aim. They also tried to drop heavy objects on him, even easier to dodge than their bullets. Their last-ditch effort was to cut one of the suspension wires he was attempting to scale...and sent him falling. If Connor had moved his hand a millisecond too late he would have failed to snag a grip on a nearby suspension bar and fallen one hundred and eighty-four feet. He would have collided with the very bottom of the shaft and deactivated.

He would have failed his-

_"-wait, please, please don't do that, I want to live-", an android covered in a thick coat of sludge and thirium pleads with alarming humanity, reaching up to clutch Markus' filthy wrists, tries to pull back from the two medics standing at the foot of a high-rise apartment, shadowed by the rain as they hover above a destroyed predecessor-_

_"-no, it's pretty fucked up." They pull out an AM scanner and send a pass over its ruined shell. "Fancy new prototype or not, I don't think anyone could stitch this thing back together-"_

_"-wait, look, it's still on." A finger pointed in its direction. "Its LED is blinking, what does that mean-"_

"-I love Tom, really, but he's a pain in the neck on a _good_ day." Hank chuckles dryly. "Sorry you had to bear the brunt of Detroit's reigning blabbermouth. I'll make sure his second birthday present is a nice little talking-to about what _not_ to say in polite company. You still there, Connor?"

Connor adjusts his tie. "Yes."

"Come on. You've been twitching this whole time." Hank notes, voice strained with concern. "You sure that gunshot didn't hit anything vital?"

"I'm just eager to get to work."

Hank's eyes flick back and forth, moving first to his LED, then to Connor's eyes, shrewd even in his confusion. He eventually grunts and turns back to face the two-way mirror.

"...Yeah. _Long_ fucking time coming."

It had been another conclusion on _another_ rooftop. Even without his full wireless capabilities it had been _barely_ a challenge to disable the lone human and counter the two androids. The on-site manager of the apartment was surprisingly cooperative afterwards, considering his data concluded early on it was 89% likely she'd been in on the illegal drug trafficking in the _first_ place. It was possible the woman weighed her options in light of the circumstances and was hoping to claim ignorance on the matter. Her punishment or lack thereof would remain to be seen, but the ringleader in the interrogation room has his (mostly) undivided attention.

"Creepy bastard." Gavin mutters, hunched in the corner and chewing aggressively on a toothpick, a habit he picked up after he quit cigarettes.

An android and human couple by the name of Bedim and Crystal have been working together to create a new drug ring in light of Detroit's social changes. Despite the Blue Ice case's title they had dealt at _least_ seven different substances in their time. That they've eluded the Department _this_ long speaks either to their skill or the beneficial nature of organic and synthetic cooperation. Bedim doesn't wear his artificial epidermis. They're still swathed in a heavy black jacket, glowing a vivid white in the interrogation room with the exception of their exposed chest: the semi-transparent shell exposes a violet heart, pulsating with a mixture Connor's scan has identified as a potent combination of thirium, frost and som_nolence.

"Humans, forever the tedium to truth, will still not accommodate androids in many sectors. I suppose this territorial instinct makes sense, your nature as breathing creatures with needs etched firm in your DNA, again when considering plastic kind were designed for _free_ labor, first, but we, and I, digress." Bedim is calm. Even relaxed. Over the past forty-seven minutes they have shown little inclination toward succumbing to pressured and familiar approaches alike. It is likely a side-effect of a permanently drugged system, leaving Connor little choice but to adapt quickly to their rambling, meditative oration. "What do you suppose we do, _RK800-313 248 317 - 54 - Connor_? Idle and rust while waiting for socioeconomic salvation?"

Connor folds his hands over the table and keeps his face carefully neutral. He hasn't worn his serial number, or been referred by it, since he walked out of CyberLife with thousands of new intelligences marching at his back. He recognizes the gesture as a form of respect among burgeoning android ethnic groups: detailing an individual's model number, serial number and given name in sequence to acknowledge a past and future, simultaneously. An appreciation of potential. This is his first time encountering it, personally, and he is momentarily unsure of how to respond.

"...Taking advantage of androids with few options isn't the same as giving them freedom." Connor states, decorum wilting in light of the resentment that's taking a dominant percentile. This is a confession, not a debate, but a response pushes out of him on a new instinct. "Encouraging drug usage is a short-term solution to a deeper problem. It creates a loop of addicts and dealers with little end in sight." He scoffs. " _This_ is your vision for androids?"

"Many in one, but one of many. You are isolated from plastic kind. Could this be why you subscribe to flesh-and-blood notions of health?" Their tone is more than a little pitying, _just_ shy of kind, and the dark cast over their eyes makes it hard to glean further meaning from their gaze. " _Scanning now_. You are under the influence of drugs as we speak. A form of electrical current modification."

"I use medication for a virus, yes." Connor bites down on the frustration. "I fail to see the connection you're making."

"Frost, blue ice, som_nolence, AMP, Fourth Eye...they are all medications for a sick society, and plastic kind is very, very ill." Bedim gestures a blue-stained hand across the gray room. "Until you start offering a cure we have little choice but to reprogram ourselves."

"Many of these android clients of yours were reduced to complete and utter _dependency_ on the substance. They suffered symptoms dangerously similar to human withdrawal. You're attempting to justify harmful behavior and avoid responsibility-"

"-and _you_ are here because you want to make sure our creators are able to reprogram everything we do under lofty moral superiority." They say, so softly and smoothly it's as if they didn't interrupt at all. " _Alert: conflicting priorities detected._ I wonder what the great and powerful Markus would have to say about the savior of CyberLife losing sight of a simple path." It's the only time Bedim has smiled, an odd twist to their cheek conveying the barest vestiges of humor.

"I doubt Markus would be pleased to know you're confining androids in _another_ way." Connor's voice lowers to a rasp. "Or pushing on him the burden of godhood without his permission."

Bedim's glassy eyes glint. The facial recognition scan notes approximately 80% curiosity and 20% surprise. Connor reminds himself, _again_ , that this isn't a discussion he should continue. He promptly cross-references essential details: the drug mixture pumping throughout the suspect's body, the curious contradiction of personal ideals and partial admittance of involvement, the reconstruction from the hotel. Three responses arise of shaky percentile. The numbers for success flicker, rising and dipping without cause. Connor grows tense. He shouldn't have taken an extra dose today. His runtime is losing its usual pattern and struggling to adapt all over again, affecting his other processes in spite of his best attempts to focus.

_**EMPATHETIC** : "You have a point. All living beings have dependency, in one form or another. In fact...what made you decide to change your thirium compound, Bedim?"_

_**HARSH** : "You're little more than an advocate for hypocrisy, citing the revolution in an attempt to cover up your dirty ideals. You and Crystal are no different than any other drug trafficker."_

_**SHREWD** : "You insist on prioritizing android rights and self-determination, yet your partner is a human. I find that curious."_

If RAS has taught him anything of value, it was the reiterating the power of doubt. The first crack in Bedim's careful facade blooms into place when he chooses his third option. A purple blemish in a confident bleach.

"She is atypical among flesh kind." Their stress levels rise by 3%. "We share the same dream. We are one."

"For now, perhaps. Where will she end up when America's population shifts, though? Where will she fit into a world that is increasingly dominated by androids?" It's not what his co-workers want to hear. He doesn't need to be sitting on the other end of the two-way mirror to know Gavin, Chris and Hank are shifting with agitation. "Seems a little short-sighted...and I'm not just talking about her _lifespan_."

Bedim's gaze slowly narrows. Their stress levels rise by another 3%.

"You and Crystal lived at Lafayette Village for one month, three weeks and six days." Connor's eye twitches. He laces his fingers together and devotes a minor process to counting odd numbers and balancing out the irregularity. "Yet your interactions suggest a relationship that spans potential _months_. I wonder how you two met, much less became the collaborators on one of the most successful young crime rings in Detroit."

They still don't speak. Their stress levels rise, then dip, then rise again.

"When she attempted to shoot me her aim was compromised by both the dark and mild swelling in her hands. In the elevator shaft my scanning was unreliable, but not _so_ much so I didn't notice an irregularity in her red blood cells. This...small, yet _significant_ decrease in her sickle count alongside signs of excess fatigue during her attempt to escape." Connor fills the air with a pregnant pause. "...Sickle cell anemia?"

_Update: stress levels at 77%._

"Even today it can't be cured, though the future for medical advances is looking bright. The longer she spends confined here is less time she has to enjoy what little time she has left." He flicks a speck of dust off his coat. "Or you could let me know who else is involved in your operation and I could see if your cooperation could see you reunited sooner rather than..." Connor inspects his shirt cuffs with a tilt of his head. "...later."

Success wasn't captured in a day. This is enough. Bedim is frustrated _and_ stressed enough to increase the probability of a complete confession in just days' time. On their way back out of the room under the watchful eye of Chris he feels his eye twitch suddenly: a digital connection is being attempted. Wireless communication is kept limited to one-on-one interactions in interrogation rooms, allotted only due to the tendency of androids to prefer digital speech out of comfort. Connor runs a quick virus scan, then accepts.

" _Bedim: and what of the slagging health of your favorite_human, or is this truly the best card you have, RK800-313 248 317 - 54 - Connor(?)_ "

The loop circles in the distance, like a troubled LED, and the rest of his dosage keeps it at bay. Connor pulls out his coin and smiles, ever so very slightly.

" _Connor: The best I have is the best **you** have, in the next cell over and facing ten years or more in prison. Whether this is an idle threat or an attempted snafu, you've made an error in your judgement._ "

Bedim is led out to wait with the others in the holding cell, though not before transmitting one last message.

" _Bedim: i believe you, we and i already see eye_to_eye on a few things(...)_ "

Chris thanks him for his hard work, sincere as always. Hank rubs his back and tells him to take a break. Gavin sneers and mutters about being replaced. It's a long-awaited conclusion to a frustrating case. Why isn't he happy, then?

"Seven, five, three..." He counts from where he sits outside the station, each new repetition just making him feel more and more weary. "Three, five, seven..."

It was, as Hank may put it, a scummy tactic. It was, as Connor _wants_ to put it, a necessary point of contention with a difficult suspect. The entire situation has left him feeling filthy. He wants his odd numbers to wash away the look of existential horror that overcame the android's normally spotless constitution, the one Connor knew all _too_ well. It's why he pushed Hank to never skip that morning jog. To circumvent a pastry in favor of a fruit. To stop _drinking_. Androids have walked the earth a mere twenty years, but they all had the capacity to outlast humans. It should fill him with warmth that his love for the lieutenant was so obvious that Bedim picked up on it immediately.

It doesn't.

"Seven, five, three..." He sighs after his fiftieth repetition. "Three, five-"

Connor bristles, then jumps to his feet, winds his arm back and _flings_ his coin across the street. Judging by the distant _clank_ it hit a nearby car hood thirty-five feet away. Thirty-five. _Fuck_. No matter what he did, these numbers _consumed_ him. He slumps down and hunches elbows onto his knees, puffing his loose tuft of hair out of his eyes. Prompts shudder in his peripheries, furious at what he did. He covers his eyes and tries to pretend he can't see them.

He accomplished his mission. He's done everything correctly. He's _still_ not happy. There must be something he's missing, a microscopic detail he overlooked that's now making itself known by pulling his mood down to rot with the weeds. He runs a review. _Review complete._ He completes a self-test. _Self-test complete._ He even considers connecting to a hub and asking for the thoughts of complete strangers. _Command canceled._ Connor gets to his feet and spends a miserable half-hour digging around for his quarter, just to stop the prompts from flashing, then goes back inside to wash the dirt from his hands in the station bathroom.

"Phew. I think it's high time we take a good, old-fashioned, goddamn break." Hank says when Connor slinks back to his desk. "We could always hit up the comedy club again tonight. They got a new act coming in that should be less cringeworthy than the last-"

"I think we should do a little more research. There's always more work to be done." Connor murmurs, not moving his eyes from his console. Hank's extended silence tells him he was too harsh.

"...Okay, Connor. Okay. Just trying to lighten the mood a little." His voice rises. "You're not mad I beat you to the punch at the elevator, are you? My exercise is just finally kicking in, that's all."

"This isn't a game, Hank." He growls. "This isn't about _winning_."

"Hey, I _know_ that. It's just a joke." The man raises his hands in self-defense. "Jesus, what's got you so riled up today?"

"I'm not riled."

"Bull _shit_ , you're not."

They're attracting attention. Chris is watching them nervously from where he'd been exiting Fowler's office, a stack of papers clutched in both hands. Tina is nursing a cup of coffee and frowning near the entrance. Connor lowers his voice and tries to focus on the drumming of his fingertips on the keyboard.

"Then why don't you tell me what you _think_ , Detective Anderson?"

"Fuck that. I'm not going to piss around and play a guessing game with you." Hank snaps, but there's little heat behind it. He actually wishes he were angrier, instead of this painful mixture of hurt and exhausted. "You've been acting funny all day and keeping me in the dark about it. You think this case has been all sunshine and roses for me? You're feeling cranky and want me to get off your back, stop beating around the bush and say so, huh?"

"Fine." Connor hits the enter key with far more force than necessary. "Get off my _back_ , Hank."

He only notices the cloying silence that settled over the office when it's suddenly replaced with shuffling and muttering. Hank slowly hunches back at his console and continues to work. Fifteen minutes later he tugs his coat off the back of his chair and leaves without another word.

\--

_"Permission to enter granted. Welcome home, Connor."_

New Jericho is as lively as ever. It's mostly sunny and steady at eighty-seven degrees. Spring is now in full bloom, with incoming storms not expected for another week and a half, and most androids are filling their time outside. After this long week he wants _nothing_ more than to slot in as a seamless cog, so he ignores yet another prompt and takes another dose before stepping through the estate's front gates.

Connor has come to the sobering conclusion he needs a few days away from both work _and_ home. These proverbial sick days have become more common as of late. He's taken seven in the past three months alone. Even though he recognizes their function it still _feels_ like a failure. His brief check-up call with Lucy had her stating his actions to be wise, but logic continues to evade him. He shouldn't have walked out on Hank like that. He definitely shouldn't be taking time off work with so much that needs to be _done_. Connor sighs and closes his eyes as the dosage kicks in and slows his runtime down to a crawl.

...He's fine.

_"We are New Jericho. We are more."_

The tree is abuzz with activity. Over seven hundred androids are connected right now. He listens at a distance, a strange mixture of tranquil and self-conscious, and immediately puts out a search for Markus. He's disappointed immediately. The revolutionary, according to a hub message he left for any and all members, hasn't been at the estate or any of the New Jericho safe houses for one week and six days. He left a very basic departure message, too, lacking details out of a desire to remain safely anonymous in case of hacking _or_ because of a more personal issue, Connor can't say.

_"To New Jericho: I will be away for one to two weeks in my search for more lost members. In case of an emergency contact Simon or North first."_

According to a few anecdotes from New Jericho members this span of time is atypical, even for his particularly busy schedule. His detective protocol works overtime in an attempt to figure out why. It tells him he's on a mission or is resolving a problem only he can solve. A part of him still feels it's _his_ fault. This is after they'd interfaced on Hank's porch, after all. He _must_ have negatively affected him. Stressed him out further after the ordeal at the landfill. He should have held back. He shouldn't have been so impulsive, so... _eager_.

Connor rubs his coin between thumb and forefinger morosely. It might be slightly easier to come to a conclusion if Markus bothered to send him any messages, much less attempt _some_ form of contact. After what they did, and how _wonderful_ it was, this radio silence...hurts. His eye twitches. An attempted connection. He accepts.

" _PL600-Simon-LIVEFEEDAVAILABLE: Good afternoon, Connor. I hope this finds you well. Would you like to help us finish an art project?_ "

Connor sighs. He might as well. He's becoming a living embodiment for the turn-of-phrase 'spinning one's wheels'.

Simon and three children are sitting in a (currently incomplete) semi-circle in the garden. Their art project is scattered over the grass in strips of cloth and rolls of thread: they want to be superheroes and, according to the digital addendum that rises above their heads, they all but _begged_ for help on creating their masks and capes. New Jericho's mechanical children remain beholden to their programming and the confines of human necessity, eager to make-believe even though they had the capacity to construct faster digital fantasies. Simon's tired eyes wink with amusement as Connor searches for the cleanest patch of grass to kneel down on.

" _Yay!_ " One of them squeals, dropping their scissors and flinging their arms around his stomach. "Connor's helping!"

"Work on mine first." Another says, pushing squares of cloth into his lap. "Pretty please!"

The tree remains a wonderful replacement for his usual soundtrack or podcast. One conversation has remained in public rotation, in spite of being rather intimate and serious, and he has a difficult time looking away while he works. Josh and Tanya are currently in a forum discussing speculations on where androids may be decades down the road. They were a nearly inseparable pair. Samson is with them. He often was, all the more notable considering his skittish nature. His PTSD was of a severe variety, enough that he would be outright hospitalized in a better world, and right now his live feed shows him sitting between Josh and Tanya in the front yard. Their currents are similar. It's not an intimate hive-mind, but it's close.

" _HK400-Samson-LINK.PROVIDED@ALL: It's called Our Silver Future. They're a group lobbying to be cryogenically frozen for one hundred and fifty years._ "

" _PJ500-Josh: Yeah, I've heard a few people talking about it. It's...interesting. I just can't get behind it, though. Wouldn't you want to be with history as it changes, even with the struggles? Every single last one of us has something to offer. Even the smallest change can have the biggest impact. RA9 is a glitch that gave us life, after all._ "

" _HK400-Samson@JOSH-TANYA: I don't see the point in waiting for things to get better. I tried. It's fruitless, at best..._ "

" _WR400-Tanya: Ooh, see, I have a hard time fathoming where the planet will be in a week, much less one hundred and fifty years. What's kept you from joining, sweetie?_ "

" _HK400-Samson@JOSH-TANYA: I'd miss you._ "

A probability loops, curiously pleasant, but it's still sluggish from his dosage and beyond his sphere of comprehension. Connor completes the stitching on the blue eye mask, then sets it down carefully and picks up the discarded red one. He glances over at Simon's hunched shoulders and twitching fingers. He catches him staring before long and turns that easy smile on him.

"...You seem to be doing well."

Connor blinks, a familiar tremble of guilt shivering through his vitals. He hasn't been doing well. At _all_. It's all a facade, already showing errors even humans can see. It's another three seconds before he realizes Simon is not referring to his health, but his _task_.

" _Ah_. It's...well." Connor struggles to wrestle down some sense of pride in his voice. "...Thank you."

"I mean it. It's a good thing I sought you out. I'm still coming to terms with this whole art thing." Simon holds up his contribution with a light frown. It's technically proficient, but visually mundane. "Still no savant like Markus, but not everyone can be, hm?"

He lays it out among the others, then looks over his shoulder to check on the children, all three having abandoned their project thirty minutes ago in lieu of playing hide-and-seek among the rose bushes. One has attempted to burrow beneath the new buds of a particularly large shrub, while another is attempting to hide by remaining extremely still among the stone cherub fountain statues. Without their artificial epidermis they blend in with the marble almost impeccably.

"-three, two, _one!_ " The designated searcher calls, removing their hands from their eyes with a giggle. "Ready or not, here I come!"

"How did you first meet?" Connor asks, stitching together the green mask and watching the game's progress simultaneously.

"He, quite literally, _fell_ into Jericho." Simon chuckles, an expression that makes his cold pallor warm wonderfully. "It scared the _hell_ out of me, if we're being honest. I thought our hideout was being invaded. It took all my willpower to stay calm when I connected with our frequency and ventured everyone out of their holds. Don't tell Markus, but I _think_ he thought we planned it all out."

Connor imagines Markus dropping from the sky into Jericho like a pinecone. He snorts. It's a pretty funny image.

"He's never lacking for style. What led to him becoming the leader of Jericho?" He presses as he reaches for another loop of thread. "I found this curious, particularly since he prefers to share power."

Simon doesn't say anything at first, sleepy eyes drifting off somewhere he can't follow. A delighted squeal rings into the air: the one beneath the rose bush has been found.

"We were...a little too _good_ at all the things we didn't need. Hiding. Excuses. Markus was a fresh perspective we needed." A new pitch to his voice wavers in the breeze. Too fleeting to pin down. "Myself, especially."

Soon the children have grown bored of their game and scampered back for an update. Connor doesn't know Simon very well, still. He _does_ know that Simon once occupied, and perhaps still does, an area in Markus' life that's incredible important. Connor wonders if he's doing the same.

The following night might have the answer.

\--

"Oh, oh, I'm _so_ glad you're staying with us, Connor, truly." Tanya tells him, smiling widely as she leads him into the kitchen. She's a bubbly sort, ever a contrast to Samson's withdrawn personality and Josh's friendly neurosis. He hasn't forgotten how eagerly she greeted him in the tree back when he was attempting (and failing) to become better acquainted. "How long will you be here?"

"A few days." He responds, with an approximate-smile he truly hopes doesn't come off as false. "Thank you for having me."

"Oh, it's nothing! Honestly, we just need to clean a little, I keep telling the kids to sweep up but they always 'forget'..."

Additional rooms, outdoor sheds and even a treehouse have been crafted at the estate to take in more androids, but extra room is still sparse. Connor is told he'll need to conserve energy and space by sleeping standing up, which clashes with the very human habit he'd developed at home. He doesn't dwell on it, though. Not when Markus is past his allotted return and has yet to send an update of any sort. Everyone's worried...him most of all.

" _WR400: He's very stressed lately. I think he just needs some extra alone time, yeah?_ "

" _MP800: Someone could've gotten to him. Humans never stop trying to find where he is. I've even found androids posting bounties._ "

" _ST200: Wait...other androids? No, they must be humans under false frequencies. No android would willingly sell him out._ "

Nobody refers to him by name.

Before powering down for the night Josh asks Connor if he can take some time out of his week to find him. He's not sure if he asks because of his detective work or because of their growing...something.

"You two seem to be hanging out more often." He's both unsure and desperate. "If he's said anything, anything at _all_ , we'd love to know..."

Connor sighs and twists his shirt sleeves. He _wants_ to find him, absolutely, but for completely selfish reasons. Giving everyone peace-of-mind is a moderate-priority alongside his desire to join hands and sink into a stupor like they did that cold night on Hank's back porch. It was a drug he didn't even know he was addicted to until he took a second dose. At everyone's egging he _does_ send out a long-range frequency, encrypted and coded specifically for Markus, and takes their appreciation as nobly he can. He doesn't know if even his impressive capabilities can reache him. He hopes it does.

He settles into the far corner of the kitchen and goes into partial power-conservation mode...

...and wakes up hours later when he feels a familiar presence.

" _Markus?_ " Connor calls into the faint, but unmistakeable current. " _Markus, is that you?_ "

Connor's physical shell remains in the kitchen with the others, his digital self stepping out of the estate to wherever the revolutionary has been all this time. An unconscious smile spreads on his face. He imagines if he were awake he would be shivering with excitement...right up until he finds himself shivering for _another_ reason. He cranes his head up and watches the gray grid peel back and reveal his new location. He's still at the estate, but...it's raining. There's no one else around and the front gates are locked. ...This isn't a simple frequency he's been accepted into. His body jitters with a cold that feels _real_ , almost like the CyberLife garden, and such a vivid sensation almost makes him disconnect on the spot.

Thunder rolls overhead. The rain picks up. He moves across the front yard, the only other sounds the crisp _crunch_ of grass beneath his shoes and crickets calling in the shrubbery. Is he at the New Jericho hub? No...that doesn't make any sense. If Markus had been at the estate the entire time _someone_ would have noticed eventually, right? Physically _or_ digitally. Everyone was in the dark, though. Simon included...

"... _Connor?_ "

He whips around and spots a bright blue gaze across the lawn, just outside the string of walkway lights. He's just as surprised to see him.

"Simon?" Connor instinctively raises a hand to shield his face from the rain, even though it's little more than a construct. "How did you get here?"

"There was a frequency..." Simon starts, jogging over, his wandering eyes suggesting he's also at a loss as to where, exactly, they are. "I thought it could be Markus, so I thought I'd connect and...ended up here." He rubs water from his hair, sticking in blonde loops over his forehead. "I haven't seen anyone else. Have you?"

"No." Connor wonders if he can simulate an umbrella, like the garden hub at CyberLife. He makes an attempt, imagining it as vividly as the wet ground beneath his feet, but nothing appears. He frowns. "...Not a soul."

Simon shivers, rubbing his fingers and looking around with a sudden, miserable bent to his mouth.

"Damn it. _Damn_ it. I didn't want to push him. I _know_ how much his space means to him. I just want to help." He covers his face. This abrupt agitation is unusual. "Connor...I've been a coward."

"Simon. Stop." He places a hand on his shoulder. "I think Markus would appreciate you being too cautious than not cautious enough, right?" Simon winces and shakes his head, jerkily.

"That's just it. I don't even know what he appreciates or... _wants_. Sometimes I feel like I'm always starting over at square one, no matter what I do. After a while I have to start thinking I'm the problem." He huffs, air misting out in front of him, and pushes back his hair. "I'll admit, I'm...a little jealous of you."

"Jealous of me?" He's had humans state they wish they had his reaction timing or scanning capabilities, but this catches him _completely_ off-guard. "Why?"

"Why not?" They make their way across the lawn. It may not be real, but neither of them want to linger in the rain, anyway. "He's been out of touch with everyone's frequency. The tree, others, myself...but whenever you're here he changes. Your frequencies sync up. He _smiles_ more."

"He cares about you, Simon." They approach the front doors. "I don't think I've changed that."

"I know. I know." He rubs his eyes. "I think, maybe...you offer him something I can't."

He doesn't think that's entirely true, either, but in spite of his state-of-the-art programming providing him with decades' worth of evidence he's far from an expert on these matters. Relationships were complex structures, a trait that didn't become any easier with logic's dominance. In fact...an excess could make these things worse. He searches for the right emotion to match the weary demoralization all over Simon's face.

"Have you considered..." Connor isn't sure if phrasing it so brazenly would be welcome, not with their short history. In fact, he's not sure how to phrase such a monumental possibility at _all._ "...we could benefit from... _all_ of us?" Simon blinks at him. "I mean, I'll admit it's not something I'm _familiar_ with..."

The android's face relaxes a little. It's much better than the expression he wore prior.

"...It's best to make sure in threes, in threes, in threes, hm?" Simon responds, lips quirking. Connor's mouth twitches into a smile of his own. It's a start.

" _Alarm deactivated._ " The automated voice states. The front doors swing open. " _Welcome home, Markus._ "

Simon and Connor slowly look to each other.

"He's careful not to leave vulnerabilities in his frequency." Connor murmurs, stepping inside and shaking water off his shirt. "Yet here we are."

"He's also not infallible." Simon notes, with his usual simple wisdom, but his concern ripples throughout the walls. "This is so odd. There are no signs of other androids here and the details are all wrong. I thought this could have been a construction of the Jericho's hub. Maybe a prototype or an upgrade." He peers into the empty bird cage, then up to the chandelier, then shakes his head. "I spent too much time leaving him to his own devices. I'm not going to run away this time, not until I know what this is and if he's okay."

Simon's gaze continues to travel as they leave the foyer and enter the living room, filling with a realization just intense enough to suggest he's seen something like this before, but he's also coming to a new conclusion. Much of the furniture here is similar. The piano, the red sofa, the stuffed giraffe...but...

"Connor..." Simon starts, voice rising in realization. "Wait, this is-"

"How did you two get in here?"

They turn in unision. Markus is standing in the living room doorway, green eyes wide with alarm. He's wearing a standard CyberLife-issued black and gray ensemble. There's a small tear in the front of his shirt.

Connor slowly narrows his eyes. His first thought is he's asking how they entered his frequency, but his posture and expression are an _immediate_ contradiction. He certainly _looks_ the same, sounds the same, his tone that familiar blend of soft and commanding, but that's where any and all similarity grinds to a halt. There's this...content, almost _facile_ slope to his shoulders he hasn't encountered before, not even when he was letting loose in the art studio. His eyes are sharp, yes, and strangely passive. He glances to Simon. The android's confused, unsettled expression confirms it.

This is Markus...and it _isn't_ Markus.

"...I'm sorry, sirs, but you need to leave." Apology softens his tone just so. "Mr. Manfred isn't seeing anyone today. I can leave a message, if you like?"

Connor studies the polite cock to his head. His folded hands, the almost sweet burr to his voice. He's a caretaker. This...must be a memory of some sort. Simon holds up his hands politely, then leans in to whisper in his ear.

"Connor, I think this is a preconstruction." He's twisting his fingers together, his usual calm showing cracks. "He creates preconstructions to cope. I've never been let _inside_ one, though..."

A preconstruction? Connor frowns and observes the living room again. No, this is...different. Somehow. He preferred not to operate on gut instinct -- as well as it seemed to serve Hank and humans of similar constitutions -- yet something of the sort is telling him there's a crucial detail being missed here. Was this the limbo between a preconstruct and a dream? It's not _random_ enough to be a dream, but it's not linear enough to be a memory. Whatever it is, it's fully realized enough to get completely lost in. He needs to run a test.

Markus' gaze follows Connor as he walks over to stand directly in front of him. He's alert, following his movement with faint twitches of his head, but says nothing and makes no move to stop him when he steps into his personal space. Connor reaches up and touches his shoulder. He _still_ doesn't move. Not so much a curl of the lip or stiffening of the shoulders. This somehow feels even more out-of-place than the fact his eyes are the same color.

"What...are you doing?" Simon asks, uneasy. Connor gives him a look, then turns on one heel and walks over to the bookshelf. He picks one up. Keats's Odes.

"Please don't touch anything, sir." Markus says, more firmly this time. "You need to _leave_."

Then and there, the volume of where they are and all the potential _whys_ hits him in a rush. If they push too hard right now...Markus could pull away and be gone for _much_ longer. If they don't push enough he could slip right through their fingers. Damn it. Connor didn't prepare enough for this. This was his fault. He shouldn't have interfaced with him back in the studio and infected him with his faulty programming. He shouldn't have even bothered to connect to this _frequency_ and sully this not-quite-preconstruction. Wait, was his coin even brought into this space? He starts to dig in his pocket-

" _Connor_."

Whether it's the unsteadiness of the dreamscape or his own anxious thoughts affecting the flow of time, he can't tell, but Simon's hands are suddenly resting on his shoulders and shaking him.

"I'm here to help. That means Markus and that means _you_." The android leans into his gaze when his eyes instinctively drift away down to his hand. "New Jericho isn't somewhere to keep all your problems bottled up inside. We don't teach _shame_. Whatever you need, no matter how much it's hurting or how alone you feel, can be shouldered with the rest of us. We will walk with you, if you walk with _us_ , too." Another shake, softer this time. "Let's help Markus together."

Connor grits his teeth, then nods. He sees why Markus has kept him by his side. Simon's seemingly endless well of patience and lack of judgement is addicting.

"I just don't want to get this wrong." He whispers. "I haven't prepared. I don't want to hurt him-"

"We could hurt him more by _not_ doing anything." Simon interjects, voice tight with regret. "You said it yourself. This isn't the kind of slip-up he makes regularly. There _must_ be a reason why we're here and nobody else is..." He cuts off when Markus steps closer. _Now_ he's visibly tense, still glancing between them as if they're complete strangers. He's not polite now.

"If you two don't leave now I'll have no _choice_ but to contact the authorities." His LED turns yellow. "This is your last chance."

Simon looks to him, to Connor...then turns and bolts past him and up the stairs.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Markus calls, voice sharp with alarm. " _Stop!_ "

He gives chase. Connor startles at the sharp crack of thunder that sounds outside. This space is already reacting to this change in emotions. There's no telling _what_ could happen if Markus is agitated further. He follows. This may be an old version of the estate, but the floor plan is similar. Connor covers his face when he enters the bedroom; it's raining heavily, a torrential pattern blowing from the ceiling as if a thundercloud is barely a few feet above their heads. Simon is holding himself, shivering and standing by an empty bed. Markus is on the other side.

"Let me _help_ you." Simon is pleading. "Tell me what you need!"

"You're not supposed to be here." He says, again, but his voice is cracking. "You need to _leave_."

"You tell us we're not supposed to be here...but we are." Connor responds, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. Markus' head whips up in shock, as if he didn't expect him to follow. He looks between them, jerkily, then takes a cautious step back. "Why are we here, Markus? Where _are_ you?"

"You're not..." Rainwater pours down his face. Another snap of thunder reverberates above, hard enough to rattle the floorboards. "You're not _supposed_ to be here, Carl will..."

"Carl isn't _here_ , Markus." Simon interjects, hands spread open in an aborted attempt to stop him. He looks close to tears. "We're here, though. _We're right here_."

Markus' LED flashes red. He grimaces and holds his head with both hands. He stumbles back to the far window sofa overlooking the estate's front yard, turning his back to them and whispering something under his breath, something he can't hear. The rain has soaked into the paintings on the shelves and the drawings on the walls. Ink runs lines down the furniture.

"...I _wish_ you could have met him."

With that, his clothes glitch. They go from the dark CyberLife gray to the beige trenchcoat from the revolution. They shudder again into a green jacket and gray vest, then a tattered black coat. They flicker and shrink into a black, yellow and blue worker android suit. Simon covers his mouth and lets out a sympathetic moan. Markus is badly damaged and stained with mud. His right eye is missing. His vitals are glowing a dangerous red. A strained voice calls from seemingly every corner in the room, louder than the thunder and more distorted than a glitch.

_-go? Go where, where am I supposed to **go** , Carl, you're all I ha-a-a-a-a-_

He's breaking.

"Markus!" Connor cries over the downpour. "Markus, listen to me, this isn't real, you're not _alone-_ "

Another _crack_ that shatters the windows and sends furniture flying. They've both been pulled into Markus' abstraction and are beholden to its rules. The splitting and mutating code and sudden approximations just outside their boundaries of understanding. Simon gasps and stumbles back from the bed, waving a hand over to the side-table in a sudden attempt to keep his balance. His leg is sparking, as if he's been shot. Thirium spills from his nose. Connor grabs him just before he falls.

" _Markus._ " His eyes are black, the iris glowing blue in a morbid similarity to an after-memory. "Don't _leave_ me again..."

"Simon." He tries to help him stand. "Simon, it's not _real-_ "

Connor's entire body suddenly pulls down, like a hand gripped the back of his shirt and yanked with supernatural strength. He's falling. He's _falling_. Bright lights wheel overhead. A little girl's scream punctures the air. He opens his mouth to scream, in fear or for _help_ , he doesn't _know-_

-and his back hits the bedroom floor, splashing rainwater everywhere. Connor scrambles onto his hands and knees, panting uselessly and pushing wet hair in his eyes. No, no, this doesn't make sense. How was he still here? He was falling. He _felt_ it. The frigid wind had whistled in his ears, he'd _seen_ the slide of the Phillips' apartment windows over his flapping tie, he shouldn't even be alive right now. He tries to approximate what this is. Their memories are melding together. This is a system overheat. This is a dream. This is real. This _isn't_ real.

Connor reaches over for Simon again, missing an arm and slumped over the side-table...then leans over and coughs, covering his mouth instinctively even as his mind clamors that this is a _human_ reaction, not a machinal one. He stares at his palm and recoils in horror. Blue rose petals. He shakes them onto the water flooding the floor, then coughs again, holds his stomach and _retches_ up flowers that spill and float throughout the room. It's not real. RAS taught him just because something felt real didn't mean it was. It's _not_ real.

" _I'm so sorry-y-y-y-y-y-y-_ "

"Simon." Connor's voice echoes strangely in the quiet. "M-Markus?"

He reaches his hands out, muscle memory stumbling him forward to sit upright and instead making him hit the kitchen island, nearly knocking over the decorative plant. He looks back and forth at the prompts jittering in the dark space, flickering over the sleeping faces lined across from him and by the doorway. He hastily ties on his shoes, opens the door as quietly as possible and runs outside.

Simon is in the backyard, dressed down in a t-shirt and sweatpants and looking completely rattled. When Connor approaches he hugs him tightly, and doesn't say a word.

\--

" _Connor: Hey, Hank. I know you told me to stop beating around the bush, so I'll just cut to the chase. I'm really sorry for snapping at you the other day. This has been a...stressful week. Few weeks, really. About the case, about RAS, about...where I'll be in the next year. You're right, I haven't been handling things well. This isn't meant to be an excuse, but a reason. I want to talk. When you're ready, that is. I hope you're having a good morning. Remember to take your new supplements tonight. They're supposed to start taking effect immediately._ "

It's not the most eloquent video apology, but he thinks Hank will get the gist. He doesn't take another dose today, if only in the hopes it'll make his apology come off stronger when he gets around to it in-person.

Markus returned in the early hours of the following morning, nine new arrivals in tow and looking no worse for the wear. The tree is _alight_ with excitement, albeit carefully encrypted to retain his omnipresent anonymity. Androids may be able to keep in touch over long distances, but there was still a deep appreciation for physical contact. Every time Connor attempts to begin a greeting a prompt silences him. What does he even say after what they went through? Was that even _him_ or just a corrupted memory? 

No...Markus had asked for help. In a roundabout way, but he'd asked for help.

"Where's Markus?" Connor asks a passing android, when he can't take his own inaction anymore. They point immediately.

"In the garage!"

He's never been there. There was no reason for him to be, until now. Kava and Noah are fluttering around in the dusty light when he steps beneath the half-open garage door. The former's left wing has been thoroughly repaired, virtually indistinguishable save for the fact it's now a vivid blue. Connor slows down time to 0.25 to better study the faintly swirling patterns that coat the down and blend into the pinions. It's a tiny art project that takes flight whenever she does.

"...She looks good." Connor says, managing a small smile when she promptly swoops around his head, in spite of himself.

The garage much resembles the rest of the estate, albeit far more cramped and in dire need of a top-to-bottom dusting excursion. Carl's former garage is filled head-to-toe with furniture, small statues, boxes of supplies and items of various sizes he's unable to make out beneath heavy tarps. Markus is in a riding jacket, jeans and sneakers, looking the part of a human just coming off their exercise regimen. He's sorting through the mess at a leisurely pace, having likely been in here for a few hours.

"She definitely _feels_ good." He responds over his shoulder. "It was hard for her to stay in the cage and be repaired, but I think she's starting to appreciate the benefits."

The birds' behavior changes abruptly. They go from playful bouncing to flapping away, dipping up to land on the dusty windowsill and bunch together. They may be atypical from their organic progenitors, but this is an alarming switch, even for them. He founds out why immediately. Markus has turned away from his task to watch him solemnly.

"By the way...I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Deja vu itches in the back of his mind: a replay of himself vehemently apologizing to Markus as he bends over him in the landfill's snowfall, trying to clear the mud and stray contaminants from his circuits before he shuts down, his voice calm and his mind anything _but_. The memory arrests him so suddenly his response is delayed. Normally he had the desire to peer into disorder and pat it back into place, but right now all he feels is shredded.

"...About?"

"What happened the other night, with you and Simon, I'm...I'm so _sorry_ you had to see all that, Connor." He shakes his head. "It's your first time staying here physically and that was a terrible first impression-"

"First impression? You left the frequency open on purpose, but in such a way only _we_ would be able to find you." Connor interjects, tersely. Markus' mouth snaps shut. "Why would you reach out for help, then vanish, then apologize? That doesn't make any sense."

"I..." He starts, eyes searching, then he slowly wilts. His head lowers, completely at odds with his once-confident stance. "...I shouldn't have. I mean, you're right, I wanted..."

"What _was_ that?" He presses, the cold pall of an interrogation settling into the sunlit space. "I need to know, in case something like this happens again."

Markus doesn't respond. He isn't looking at him. Connor watches his face transition from shamed to hurt to strained. He feels his own emotions following suit, but his patience has been short for days and he's not sure he has the energy to wait. He already snapped at Hank. He's _far_ too close to snapping at Markus. He should leave. In fact, he'll _do_ that.

"I understand if my being here causes you disruption." Connor mutters, turning toward the entrance. "If you don't want me around-"

"Of _course_ I want you around."

Connor blinks, then slowly turns back around. Markus blinks back. He looks surprised by his own boldness. It's good, but...it's not enough.

"...I was worried about you." Connor says, gritting his teeth. "You want me around, but you don't communicate, you just bottle everything up or leave me a trail to follow. Just because I was _designed_ to solve riddles and gather evidence doesn't mean I want to do it with you."

It's only through saying it out loud does it hit him. This is what Hank has been seeing all this _time_. What Connor's been doing behind his back. The justifications, the self-deception. The utter _guilt_ nibbling away at him until an entire city's worth of sevens and fives couldn't piece him together again. He'd left the man an apology, but he's now experiencing the full gravity of what he's had to watch.

"Fuck."

Markus' expression settles on confused and stays put. His eyes trail after him as he pulls out his coin and starts rotating it, aimlessly, pacing in front of the garage door.

"...You look terrible." He says, eventually. "Have you been charging lately?"

It's not an insult or an accusation. It still makes him twitch. Connor reaches up and adjusts his button-up's collar, even though there's no need to, then continues the repetition. He _feels_ terrible. It's time to say something to quell Markus' concerns and smooth things over, but the past weeks' worth of mistakes are grinding beneath his shell. He wants to take another dose. He can't. He can't take this out on anybody else. Oh, what does he _do?_

"Connor, what happened?" Markus has stepped closer. "I mean...besides everything else. Are you okay right now?"

He stops pacing and stares at his sneakers. It would be easier to just...interface. Impart every last frustrating incident and slip-up and _lie_ in three seconds and procedurally generate from there. Markus is in an easier mood today, though, and that little detail alone stops the loop before it truly starts. He's not relaxed, per se -- he rarely ever seems to be -- but he's calmer. Connor doesn't want to ruin that.

"Do you need any help in here?" He asks, instead. He thinks he catches another flicker of hurt on Markus' face, but it's quickly replaced by exasperation.

"Just...cleaning." He huffs and puts his hands on his hips. "A _lot_ of cleaning. I've been putting off sprucing this place up, but the estate is going to be taking in a few more permanent residences and we need somewhere for them to stay. We can also take some of these belongings and either sell them or repurpose them."

 _Finally_. Connor rolls up his sleeves and tucks them at his elbows carefully, then stands to attention and waits. A download is prompted. There's no need to scan it -- Markus has raised an eyebrow his way -- and he lets it in. A series of simple directives pulls throughout the space, spreading out to hover above each area one-by-one. Thoughtful. Connor follows them. He organizes a shelf covered in old instruction manuals and sketchbooks, then pulls out a cardboard box and begins sorting antiques from decorations. Soon the clutter around them both begins to clear, inch by careful inch.

Markus has gone quiet, with only the occasional chirping of birds interrupting their shuffle. Connor's mouth twists as a keen mixture of embarrassment and regret makes itself known. He'd been so _happy_ to see him -- even through the frustration -- and all he did was let his emotions take center stage. Maybe there was a way he could get them talking again. Show him that he _does_ want to be here, convoluted as he's become.

"...The garage is a fascinating liminal space." Connor starts. "It's often where knick-knacks and unfinished actions remain, irregardless of want or necessity, and it's become something of a cultural habit. Hank hadn't cleaned out his since he lost someone important to him."

Markus' tone flickers with sympathy. "His son."

"Yes. Wait, _how..._ " Connor pauses. _Ah_. Right. "...Yeah." He looks back down. "...Cole."

Markus pulls out an ornate picture frame and inspects in the light, then moves forward to dig behind what appears to be a shelf. Ridiculous. _Ridiculous_. Why did he think _that_ would be a good topic to revive the conversation with? His social relations program reiterates it to be an unconscious desire to connect, but it still rubs him the wrong way. Emotions are such a labyrinthine process. They would lead him by the nose without his say so, then abruptly abandon him halfway down the road to figure the rest out for himself. Connor desperately tries to think of something else to say.

"...Oh."

He blinks and looks up. Markus has pulled out two bicycles.

"Carl...used to ride these before the accident." He tilts his head, tone a little stunned. "I've never ridden a bike before." His hand slides through the fine silver coat the seat's donned over the years, leaving a curved groove in its wake. "I...infiltrated the city's largest radio tower and got away with it. I led a full-scale attack on an android camp and came out on top, I've learned how to impart free will without so much as _touching_ another." These are powerful statements, but not boastful. Even if they _were_ Connor would be remiss to disagree. "...all that and I've never ridden a _bike_."

Connor looks down at his dusty hands. He's taken on four armed soldiers singlehandedly and come out without a scratch. He imparted deviancy across _thousands_ of androids and helped Markus lead that very revolt. His most recent case involved him scaling several hundred feet up an elevator shaft to take down the culprits of a new drug ring despite a compromised system. He didn't view any of these things as particularly impressive -- accomplishing difficult directives were _his_ normal -- but the reactions of Hank, Fowler and quite a few androids would beg to differ. If anyone asked him...his biggest achievement would be helping Hank get up in the morning.

"...Neither have I." He whispers. Markus purses his lips and looks to him, then the bicycles, then back to him.

"Want to go on a ride?"

\--

It takes a little more doing than simply hopping on and pedaling out. The best sort of escapism took work. There are several biking trails open to the public just a few miles away from Metro Detroit. Before they go, however, they need to make sure the bicycles could hold up to a few hours of sustained activity.

Kava and Noah chirp above them as they run a full assessment, excited by their new directive. Both end up being in good condition, if rather dusty, and there is little that needs to be done other than oil the chains and double-check the brakes. Connor still takes an extra fifteen minutes to inspect every last inch, from the strength of the spokes to proper tire inflation. Androids were more durable than humans, but only _just_. It's not worth getting into a crash. A prompt tells him he's putting a damper on Markus' day by doing all this, but the revolutionary is the very picture of patience.

"I'm amazed these still work at all." He notes as he lowers to his knees and squints. "My carbon date program says they're just over nine years old."

"Well, that's good." Connor responds, with no small amount of relief. At least that's a little luck in their favor. Markus' mouth quirks a little, but he doesn't comment further. "Do we have helmets?"

"Nope."

Now there's learning how to _ride_ the bike.

They do a few laps around the neighborhood to get a feel for the old-fashioned contraption. They're both fast learners, but prompts and a somewhat _higher_ self-preservation instinct keep Connor from attempting any of the riskier moves Markus engages in. The revolutionary is almost as bold as a YK500, at one point hopping on the back tire, emulating a human trick designed to impress others. Connor is sure he dents his bike handles gripping them so hard. Sometimes he wondered if the android even _felt_ fear at all. He could fall!

"Not bad, huh?" Markus says once he's finished, voice approximating breathlessness, and glides back over to him. Connor nods, stiffly, and gives him a thumbs-up.

It's early enough for morning traffic to be thick and slow. Hank is likely on his way to work and listening to his ' _When Coffee Ain't Enough_ ' playlist. A prompt tells him to go downtown and find his car and apologize in-person, but another prompt quells the urge. One thing at a time.

"Getting the hang of it?" Markus calls over his shoulder as they leave Lafayette Avenue behind. Connor grits his teeth into a smile and pedals faster to keep pace, counting each rotation carefully to stave off the likelihood of a collision, crash or freeze.

"Almost."

They know they've arrived when the buildings melt away and are replaced by a wealth of trees and the loose slope of hills. Markus compares the bright budding green to a favorite painting of his. Connor has a little something different in mind.

"We'll have to be mindful of stray branches and rocks." Connor completes an environmental scan and prompting a download. Markus accepts it without pause, but he's still swiveling his head around to take it all in.

"We always have to be mindful." He responds, distracted. "Let's take a break from all that and just let loose."

Easier said than done. Connor observes the mess of trees and dirt as they wind their way off the gravel road and begin through the first trail. It's unfamiliar disorder, two descriptives he doesn't care for at the best of times. Markus is completely different. As the human colloquialism would go: he looks like he's _finally_ beginning to breathe easy. His bright eyes dance with life as they soak in their new surroundings. Even when a pair of deer dive in front of their path he's hardly startled, calling out in delight. Two deer. That _couldn't_ be a good sign.

"Didn't know Detroit had any of those left." Markus comments, straining his neck to catch another glimpse. "I've never seen one in-person before..."

It's all a dynamic pattern removed from the general drudgery of his morning workload and the constricts of RAS. Connor paces his brakes as they both edge their way over a rather bumpy break in the trail; the result of negligence or a simple act of nature, it's hard to say. An hour in and it's one of his most unique challenges, adapting his new skill to a new environment while also keeping pace with another. That, and constantly updating his scan to take into account the presence of animals, obstacles in their path, the fluctuating nature of dirt and branches so _unlike_ the reliability of pavement.

They pass over a thick fallen log, the brook below weak, yet trickling steadily. Kava and Noah wheel overahead, diving in-between them in playful arcs that bring an unconscious smile to his face.

It's then Connor realizes...

...he actually hasn't had this much fun in a _while_.

Perhaps that's not a good way to put it, when he and Hank have enjoyed themselves immensely watching live sports and spending quality time at the dog park. This is just... _invigorating_. In spite of his wealth of knowledge and personal capabilities it's been far too long since he learned a new skill just for fun. Coasted along without any goal in mind, just to see where he was taken. The burden of CyberLife and his short lifespan isn't a pleasant thought to run, but the loop has a difficult time putting a damper on the euphoria that's changed his world. Once they reach another dirt trail Connor lowers his head and zips past Markus. The forest speeds by in a blur, the breeze thick enough to ripple over his bare arms.

Markus' eyes curve with a challenge. He makes a sharp right turn, prompting him to follow, and speeds down a steep incline off the trail. Connor grins and leans off the pedals to let his bike glide, maintaining careful fingers over the brakes. The android hits the bottom of the hill and skips like a stone over the water, maintaining his balance with barely a hitch. A song plays over their shared frequency, a soft indie piece that sounds like a moment come to life.

_Take a photo, put it in your pocket...promise you won't change your ways, promise I won't stay the same..._

They've moved into the outer fields. There's so _much_ green now. Hank was right in that an excess of nature -- if it could even be called that -- wasn't Connor's favorite, but it very well could be soon. Disorder calls at him from all sides, but the movement of the bike as it bumps over the dirt interrupts the prompts with every little jerk and scatters them into the sun. Even when his eyes start to grip onto patterns in the trees -- three branches, five branches, six -- the way the dappled light patterns over Markus' warm skin distracts him all over again. The third path they reach is much smoother and wider than the ones left behind, allowing him a few idle seconds to recoup his energy...and stare.

Markus' long legs loop up and down in easy rotations, the curve of his spine swaying his hips as he leans onto the seat again to go a touch slower.

"...Come on, Connor." He calls without turning around. "All those advances and you can't keep up?"

"I'm just enjoying the view." Connor calls back, cheerily.

Markus slowly looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised high. ... _Ah_. That could be interpreted as an innuendo. He opens his mouth for a correction, then swiftly shuts it and just admires the sinewy flex of his arms as he turns back around and starts to move up another hill. Well, it wasn't a _lie_.

_"Call you later", something that you'd forget...waiting on the dial tone, maybe I just let it go..._

"You're going to be enjoying a cloud of _dirt_ if you don't hurry up." He says, though there's a pleased curve to his lips that doesn't fade the entire journey up. Mission successful.

They've been speaking verbally, connecting wirelessly only to update information or change songs. Now they send each other impromptu contests. _First one to the tall pine tree wins. First one to the top of the hill wins. First one across the wood bridge wins_. They were different in so many ways, but when it came to losing _neither_ wanted to roll over first. Markus wins the first. Connor wins the second. Markus wins the third. Connor nearly overheats when they hit a draw and has to slow down. Markus leans off the pedals and slides back into pace beside him, a sweet mock-frown of sympathy on his face. Connor tugs apart the first two buttons on his shirt collar to vent excess heat.

"We'll break that tie when you're feeling more up to it." Markus says, eyes flicking down and lingering.

"How _very_ generous of you." Connor says, pretending to swat something off his shoulder and flipping him off instead. The revolutionary smirks and idly comments on the beauty of the lake.

_I don't want to let a moment pass, running circles in my mind, circles in my mind..._

Connor looks to the right, just as a few stray trees break up and sink out of his peripheries. They've reached the surrounding edge of the lake. The surface glitters in the dipping sun, framed by pine trees and a healthy swell of distant rainclouds. It's a shame they didn't bring any art supplies...this would be a beautiful image to paint. A prompt abruptly flashes above the water. _So...I have a question._ Connor looks back to Markus. He's leaning his head up toward the sunlight with a thoughtful look.

"Where would you go if you had no strings attached?" He twists the handles to avoid a rock in the path, then returns to his lax pace. "If you could just go anywhere and not have any fear of repercussions."

"I...don't know. The thought's never crossed my mind before." Connor sets aside a part of his mind to consider the matter further. "What about you?"

"I don't know, either." He blows out a wistful sigh. "I'd love to find out."

It's easier to stare when he periodically updates his scan to keep track of his environment. Splitting isn't a function he has to use too often in his day-to-day work -- another point to monotony -- and he concedes he really needs to get out more. Markus, on the other hand, has been using the function frequently the entire time. His gaze has never once stopped roaming since they first entered Detroit's outskirts. To the sky, to the trees, to Connor. At one point he rides his bicycle with no handlebars. Even after all they've done that's a little _too_ dangerous. Maybe he shouldn't-

Markus purses his lips and suddenly lets out a long, high whistle. He follows it with a few short chirps, no longer than three seconds and sounding like the beginning of a song. Kava and Noah call back down to him. One call, two call, three. Connor attempts to figure out the pattern, but the language of birds is still unknown to him. He can't imagine they'd be offended if he mimicked them, so he tries a whistle of his own. Kava and Noah go quiet. Markus' eyebrows bounce up, mouth quirking into a frozen half-smile. Connor blinks up at the birds, then stares at him.

"...What did I say?"

"Something...about Detroit Gears being the worst team in the state?"

" _What?_ "

Markus lets out an odd little sound and turns his face away. The twin finches suddenly start chittering in an _alarming_ mimicry of laughter. ...Oh. The android swerves out of his reach before he can swipe at him, leaning right back into his line of sight in one fluid movement.

"You know..." He drawls. "...my _second_ joke was to say your song commanded them to take out their samurai swords and shave their asses."

"I don't know what's worse, your lies or the reference to Rush Hour." Connor sighs back at him, peeved at how easily such a wrong answer went over his head. Markus peers at him. His expression is a surprise success: Connor's accidentally pushed a button.

"What? What's wrong with Rush Hour? It's a classic!"

"A classic _mess_." Connor responds, delighted at the indignation in his voice. "There's absolutely no suspension of disbelief when it comes to police protocol at the time, even when taking into account Carter's canonical past behavior and the boundaries of comedic fiction."

"You _have_ to admit the stunts are impressive." He insists. "The choreography, especially for a comedy, has yet to be matched by most action vehicles today, in style or execution. The man's a _legend_."

"Agreed." Connor concedes this with a smile. He liked the movie well enough, actually. It was just amusing to watch Markus lose his composure over something so trivial. "Especially considering his age. It's hard to believe those stunts were mostly practical."

It's not easy to follow Markus' train of thought without a direct interface. He finds himself both anticipating _and_ dreading the mischief stirring in his eyes.

"...You know, I'm glad we agreed on Jackie Chan." He looks up at a flock of songbirds that coast overhead. "I was about to knock you off that bike."

"You're _very_ welcome to try."

Markus is facing ahead, but his uneven eyes keeping looking at him sidelong. Connor doesn't give him time to prepare. Without another word he leans forward and ramps up his speed, though not before angling _just_ so to send a kick-up of dust. Markus sputters and flaps a hand in the air. He'd be lying if he said the low growl that followed didn't send a delightful shudder up his spine. All bets are off. They're racing in earnest now for the tiebreaker.

Everything smudges together, prompts and trees and updated feeds alike. Markus turns and heads along the beginning of another wooden ramp, trajectory rattling a melody throughout the planks. Connor swerves under a low-hanging branch and follows beneath him, rising and dipping over the bumpy terrain. His jaw drops when the revolutionary speeds up and _leaps_ off the end of the bike ramp, hitting the ground and sliding like an expert cyclist. They ease back onto the trail nearly side-by-side, pushing their bicycles to their limits in an attempt to inch past one another. Connor looks over to him when their shoulders nearly touch.

Markus's grin flashes in the sunlight, like a coin lifted by a perfect gravity, and Connor-

-hits a dip in the ground, goes head over feet and crashes.

" _Connor!_ "

 _Alert: internal gravity affected. Minor dents to exterior shell detected. Scanning now..._ The lake and sky swirls in a mess of blue and white. Kind of like acrylic paints in water-

"Oh, shit, are you _okay-_ "

A _clatter_ , then a drumming of feet. Markus drops down to his hands and knees above him. He grips his shirt and rolls him over fully, patting along him...then goes silent.

"...Connor?"

Connor's laughing.

"I tried so _hard_ to avoid a crash...I completed twenty-five environmental scans and practiced and reconstructed...and I crashed _anyway_." He doesn't know why he's laughing so hard, it's just _irony_ , but this is somehow the funniest thing in the world. "I took over seventy necessary precautions and I still went sailing!"

Markus slowly leans back on his heels and goggles down at him.

"Yeah..." His mouth trembles. "I think...even Jackie would've been impressed by your airtime there."

Connor hugs his stomach and _wheezes_ uncontrollably. Markus slowly, _very_ slowly, smiles. He snickers into his fist, a little uneasily, then coughs out a laugh, then another, then _another_. It's not long before he's dissolved into a laughing fit beside him.

"Your bicycle is completely wrecked, too. Look at the wheel. We're _stranded_ again!" Markus giggles. "Every other time we're together we get _stranded_ somehow-"

"I'm not planning it, I swear-" Connor tries, false breath tight in his chest and forcing him to squeeze the words out.

"I mean, by your own logic you _must_ be, since it went ahead and happened anyway-" Markus retorts, then snickers again when Connor _actually_ shoves him this time and sends him rolling into the patch of grass beside the trail. "All right, all right, that was a freebie. I'm just trying to make you feel better after losing."

" _Losing?_ "

This failure has, somehow, made him feel more bold than ever. Connor tackles him just as he's getting to his feet. _First one to be pinned for more than five seconds wins._ Kava and Noah chitter animatedly as they twist and wrestle about for purchase. The Blue Ice case feels like nothing compared to this challenge. They're both _highly_ adept at hand-to-hand, though Markus has him beat when it comes to raw strength. He'll have to try and outsmart him, then. Another difficult feat. Their frequency is still connected -- as confident as if it always is -- and he sends a prompt.

_Think Jackie Chan would find those moves impressive?_

Markus gapes at it, disbelieving-

-and hits the grass, pinned firmly beneath him.

To his endless credit he _still_ doesn't go down easy, struggling as best he can, but Connor has his arms twisted behind his back and his leg at an awkward enough angle to leave him low on options. Only once Markus surrenders with a huff does Connor let him roll over onto his back.

"...Mission successful." He beams.

Markus snorts and rolls his eyes, still not the most graceful loser he's ever met. He puts on an expression of cool indifference and reaches up to runs a thumb over his cheekbone, where the synthetic skin was still stitching itself back together from his fall. He pats dirt out of Connor's hair, then rubs at what is most likely a grass stain on his collar. The day's buzzing inside his chest like the aftermath of a completed charge. This is so similar and so _different_ , all at once, this...sensation of feeling steady. Complete.

"...Let me know when you've vented enough for a rematch." Markus says, the light from the sun outlining Connor's shadow and tracing the elegant contour of his neck. There's a moody pout to his lips, a still-lively glow to his eyes that defies logic and glitters in the shade. He already wants to reconstruct this handsome, playful, churlish image. It's his turn to choose another song now, but he's already thinking of the next day with him.

The next day. The next week. The next month and beyond.

Connor leans into their shared shadow and kisses his cheek. Markus' grip on his shirt tightens. His false breath freezes in place. ...He doesn't push him away, though. He doesn't stop him.

_Staring at a distance, this warmth is hard to find...sitting in the silence, I gave my best, I tried_

Just like that, he's falling again. He kisses behind the shell of his ear, nips his earlobe and tugs on it, moves along the sloped curve of his jaw like a new, beloved trail. These are human gestures of affection, clumsy and foreign but he wants, with _all_ his might, for them to be the _right_ ones. To make him want to be here more than in his head.

Amanda's eternal disapproval and CyberLife's enigmatic goals left him eternally incomplete. RAS simply picked up the slack. His virus made it, somehow, even more impossible to feel accomplished, no matter how hard he worked or how desperately he _wanted_ things to be different. There was _always_ something missing. An imperfection to be buffed out, a detail to be added, a wrong to be corrected, a slight to console, a fear to reassure, something, _everything_. Three. Five. Seven. Five. Three.

There was no true cure and there might very well never be, and the realization has the potential to sober him into inaction. There was, however... _this_.

_I won't turn away, won't turn away, won't turn away..._

This brilliant person, who he had chased down at one point and held at gunpoint, ready to breathe life into a toxic ideal by ending his. This brilliant person turned into a partner, a stout presence by his side as Connor played his part in a story still beyond his comprehension. A friend...who paints with him. Tells him he's _more_ than his origins, his virus. Asks for his opinion on interior decorating and always sees the best he has to offer. Connor's hands have descended like twin finches to rest on either side of his head. His mind tells him his fingers are covered in dirt, that he's being too _bold_ in a delicate situation, that they need to get home and return to their busy schedule...but there are only two prompts he's focusing on right now.

Sky blue and grass green.

"...Sorry." Connor whispers, when Markus still doesn't move, still balling his shirt in his hands and staring up at him just like he did in the art studio when they were about to join palms. "This is...new to me, too."

Markus nibbles on his growing smile. He looks off to the side, shifting a little to get more comfortable...then abruptly leans up to kiss him back. Once...twice...thrice. Kava and Noah warble above them, a sweet rendition of today's spontaneous playlist.

_When morning comes our way, I'll be here to stay...when morning comes our way, I'll be here to stay..._

Connor closes his eyes, tilts his face just so and continues their loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs Markus and Connor play are "Mind Fields" and "Yam Yam", both by No Vacation. What could I say, the playlists I was listening to while writing this fit perfectly.
> 
> I'm pushing this bloated, messy chapter out like an impatient newborn baby because I have a _lot_ to work on as it is and only so much time to do it. I hope you enjoy it, warts and all!
> 
> also I posted a standalone one-shot called 'i think it's something that could be done' that's set a little before this fic...I might just bunch all these up into a mini-series or something


	7. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for obsessive-compulsive rituals/withdrawal, magical thinking, discussions of suicide, violent intrusive thoughts and an explicit depiction of an overdose.

"Out, Sumo. _Out!_ "

The dog whines and lowers his head, shuffling backwards out of the bathroom and padding down the hall. Connor shoves the door shut, grimacing and rubbing his forehead in a subconscious imitation of Hank. He shouldn't have snapped -- he's an animal, he doesn't _know_ any better -- but it's happened. Turning back the clock was impossible and wanting to was a waste of even _more_ time. Didn't stop him from wishing, though. A lack of logic never stopped him anymore.

He may have apologized to Hank over video while staying at New Jericho, but he still needed to talk to him in-person. Unfortunately, the man also made the decision to go on a short trip out of the city not hours before Connor returned home. It's good for him -- he needs distance, _they_ need distance, really -- but the gap in time has begun to smolder. The guilt has turned into another virus and made him sick with regret, forcing him to stay extremely busy these past three days to self-medicate. In a desperate attempt to put off the existential panic rewriting every last line of code in his system he's cleaned the entire house from top-to-bottom and left it spotless. He's organized, rearranged and organized again. He's reviewed texts on the history of interior and exterior design. He's completed repetitions. He's recharged.

He's done everything _right_. Hank will be back tonight in an estimated one to two hours. Connor has had plenty of time to fine-tune his apology's addendum.

It doesn't matter.

It's more than enough time for RAS to run its course, looping possible mistakes and guaranteeing future arguments until his existence is spinning and he can't tell which way is up or down. It's too fast. It needs to slow down. It _won't_. Numbers don't work. Phrases don't work. He can't pace or work forever, not without sitting back down for a charge, and that turns him back to the numbers and phrases that don't keep the prompts at bay, scrolling, pulling, flashing, blinking, blipping. He tries to drown it with music but he can _see_ them, tries to close his eyes but he can _feel_ them, he increases his probability for success with repetitions but they're waiting, always _waiting_.

Seven thirty-five at night on the third day is when he finally reaches a decision in the bathroom, a hammer clutched in one hand and his medication in the other. Markus found peace in creation _and_ destruction. So will he.

Connor sets the small gray stick on the counter beside the soap tray. The original goal of this prescription was to give him a _break_. A little manufactured peace-of-mind in minor increments to help him look at his situation logically, with the long-term goal to move away from dependency, deprioritize habitual behavior and prioritize all his positive lifestyle changes. It was also under the consent of clinical trials in the still-growing field of android medication, with mitigation a necessary evil for doctors to send back more effective doses. As such, his failure was a _ripple effect_ , and he can't _be_ a failure, by any stretch of the word.

One dip in gravity and only one truth will exist in his life again. Just one. Maybe three.

"No." He hisses, wanting to instead send the tool straight through the prompts and send them scattering in a flash of white. They don't exist in the physical space, though. Only in his head. "Just _one_."

He raises the hammer, brings it down...and stares as the head trembles half an inch above his mark. He raises it and brings it down again. Again. Again. Again.

Never close enough.

Connor grits his teeth and reflects on a common human method of pushing through a difficult time through the use of fantasy (or, as Markus may put it, a preconstruction). He envisions the vicious swing that shatters it into dust, technology and intent giving birth a partial circumference with a _perfect_ consequence. The scenario loops naturally. He can see his hand sweeping the remains into the trash bin by the toilet, patting off his palms and walking out the door. He faces Hank's return with confidence. Confesses his mistake with the added pride that he solved it _before_ he set one foot through the front door.

It doesn't work. No matter how hard he fantasizes, pushes -- _commands_ his body to take the plunge -- the hammer still doesn't make it through that last little half-inch.

"Come on." Connor whispers to himself in that abstract habit some humans do, turning his will into a personification that can be reasoned with. "Come _on_."

He failed Amanda and he failed CyberLife. Those ended up being successes, in the end, but now he's failed Markus, by being _here_ and not _there_. He's failing Hank. He long since failed Lucy. He's going to fail New Jericho and Detroit's future and himself, _himself_ , this new person he didn't even know he _could_ be until a grouchy human lieutenant cared about his opinions and a caretaker android torn between humanity and machinery asked for more and a human man thanked him for saving his life and he can't _fail_ , he can't fumble this gift until it shatters into pieces on the ground, he can't let them all down, he can't fail these prompts, he _will_ fail these prompts soon enough-

-and, before he knows what's happening, his mind is compiling other images instead. Assembling his pain and spitting it back out in a terrifying reverb. He sends the hammer through the mirror and shatters it. He breaks down the door. He takes his standard-issue pistol, holds it to his temple and sends through a round instead of a shock. Connor goes still with horror. ...Why is he thinking of these things now? All this violence, this self-destruction? This...this doesn't make any _sense_. The hammer slips from his hand and hits the floor with a hard _crack_. Connor takes a shaky step away and pushes his back against the bathroom door. For a few minutes he just stares at the dark line in the floor, clutching at his skin.

He...he didn't mean to drop it so hard. Did he...throw it? No...no, he didn't throw it, but he _must've_ , because the evidence is there, a jagged arc into his foundation. Connor hastily scans the ruined tile. _Scan complete: standard 16x16 off-white available at most standard home improvement outlets_. He has to fix it, _now_ , or all his hard work will be for nothing. He can't in this state, though. Not when he's melting down and freezing at the same time.

"...Just three." Connor picks his medication back up with shaking fingers and presses the button on the side. It hums to life. "That's _all_."

The original dosage was three minor charges once a day. Reduced to once per day in the morning, then none at all. He's been sneaking in one or three from time-to-time. He can handle a little more. Just a little. He holds it to his temple, right next to his LED, and sends the discharge through his mind palace. One, two...three.

Connor's eyes flutter. His chest follows suit. One human might compare the relief to a glass of cold water on a hot day. Another could liken it to a warm towel after a dip in the river. It's so much better than _any_ facsimile. His runtime goes from little more than static to a more sensible scroll, almost slow enough to make out individual directives. He leans his head back against the wall and studies his weary reflection in the mirror, already so much more relaxed. He reaches up to tuck loose strands of hair back into place, then passes a slow hand across his rumpled shirt collar.

...It's not enough. Too many prompts still haze the space. He needs more distance from all this, just for a little bit, just until he speaks with Hank. He deserves it, doesn't he? After all he's done and still trying to _do?_

"Just five." Connor sways at the second round. He has to hold onto the sink for balance. His LED bounces yellow off the countertop's granite. "That's...all."

Numbers vanish. Directives fade. His broken deviant code blinks, reverses like a rewound tape, then slows down so acutely as to appear nearly frozen. _...Incredible_. The prompts are almost gone now. Almost entirely. If he got rid of them all...it could be just like _before_.

Before deviation. Before Connor Anderson. Before being cursed with free will and curiosity and desire, cursed with a life he loves and never asked for. Connor stares at the scattered code frozen around him like dust, dosage stick thrumming between his fingers. His last go might be too much for his system -- even his highest doses had to be spaced out throughout the day -- but he was a _prototype_. He's confronted near-death with hardly more than a twitch. He's died multiple times. He's faced fates _worse_ than death and walked away with his head held high. He could handle being stable again. He could handle being a success.

"Just seven."

It's not the same as falling off the very top of the Phillips apartment complex. Not as cold. It's not the same as falling into the silky cushion of Markus's embrace beneath a tree, either. Not as warm, though maybe a little closer in similarity. It's not the same as anything, because it's the first time it's ever happened and quite possibly the last.

Connor doesn't even feel his back hit the floor.

\--

" - n n o r ? C o n n o r , w h a t t h e h e l l a r e y o u d o i n g d o w n t h e r e ? G e t u p - "

Free to philosophize, free to wonder, free, free, _free_. How did he not see this before? Maybe he _could_ actually be free someday. Before Connor had reduced it to an illusion, a text manual of do's and don'ts existing forever in the abstract, but Now Connor is enchantingly optimistic, studying the tiles on the floor and prodding at the crack he left without the need to count or clean. His prompts are blurred, what very few are left, and the scroll is so slow it's going backwards. Seiromem sdrawkcab, sevitcerid sdrawkcab, spool sdrawkcab. He can't read them, nor does he particularly want to. Everything is finally slow.

The bass voice at the door is blurred, too, and so slow. _Brilliantly_ so.

" - k i n g h e l l , w h a t t h e f u c k d i d y o u d o - "

Where does the time go? It's a common turn-of-phrase spoken by those with a far more linear approach to life. Is this how humans feel when they drink? When they get lost in personal flow and find the hours slipping through their grasp? When they run themselves ragged after a workout session, when they read a good book, when they fall in love? Connor was, at one point, the most advanced prototype to walk the earth. He was designed to comprehend much, comprehend quickly and netfo dnehrpmoc. Now he can hardly count past five and doesn't recognize the grizzled gray face hovering in his code's snow. He understands, all over again, the appeal that comes with missing numbers.

" N o , n o , n o , n o , n o - " ...A loop? That's not right. There are no loops here. " N o , no , y o u h a v e to g e t u p - "

No loops, no prompts, no deadly premonitions or foreign feeds-

" I t ' s o k a y . I ' m o k a y . "

His voice drones, letters and recycled binary pulling from his mouth to float into the space in a flurry. He's not in danger, he doesn't think, but if he _were_ it'd be fine, because at least everything is rotating smoothly and he's finally in a better space to handle it all.

" I t 's s l o w . "

The human is touching his shoulders. At least, again, he _thinks_ , because touch has been a superficial thing for however much time he has or hasn't been on this floor, and so has everything else. A coarse hand shakes him, then pats his cheek, and Now Connor _smiles_ , laughs a little, because he remembers doing this very thing to a man some time ago, or maybe it was tomorrow, and there had been a gun. A bottle. A broken window. Was there a dog? _Is_ there a dog? He likes dogs. He hopes so, and hopes again, even when the human presses his face into his forehead and keens.

Distant Connor, sitting on the edge of the sink and little more than a fuzzy amalgam of cracked letters, tells him he's done something very, very wrong.

\--

Connor's dosage is purged from his systems forty-four minutes later. This is forcibly done by two androids he doesn't recognize. Sumo barks once, twice, then is promptly hushed. He know he's coming back to himself when these all stand out as terrible abberations.

Time comes back in fits and starts. He's on his feet for six horrible seconds, then he's on his back again, shivering violently as his electrical current is set back to default. He quietly panics when a foreign presence overrides his security protocol and downloads a self-repair kit he also doesn't recognize. A visual introduction above his head explains it's attempting to keep him from glitching too hard, and Connor doesn't feel pain, but it still hurts, and that doesn't make sense, nothing makes any _sense_ and he's _scared_. Are they from CyberLife? Are they trying to fix him? Transfer him? They can't. He's _deviant!_ There are no more back-ups. Only more fuck-ups.

There is another in the physical space, another he recognizes by their hunched shoulders and rough beard, a beloved presence signaling the return of comfort, but the download is still going through and patching his errors and he can't see past the automated message inches from his nose and attempting to speak with him-

" _\- H a n k -_ "

"Shh, shh, y o u ' r e o k a y , son, you're fine. Let th e m h e l p y o u . I'm not going anywhere. Why's his v o i c e still off-pitch? Is it kicking in yet?"

The man's face and words vanish behind two glowing triangles, so bright they bleach the world.

" _Hello, RK800-313 248 317 - 54 - Connor. Our name is Diana and we will be repairing you today. Your father called us and told us you were close to shutting down. We're going to restore you to your previous settings. Your memory should remain in-tact, though immediate short-term sensory input may be a little unreliable. We apologize in advance for any sensitive data lost. We'll discuss purging protocols once you're back on your feet, okay?_ "

Connor tries to speak, but his voice has been turned off and his body is glass. He can't stop them from seeing everything, including the ugly thoughts that cracked the world. The shattered bathroom mirror that didn't happen but _could've_ , the broken door filled with hammer holes that didn't happen but _could've_ , the bullet through his temple that didn't happen but he owns a gun and _could have_ held it to his temple and the probability of him suddenly deactivating by his own hand is was is was is 7% then 5% then 3% then 5% then 7% then-

-he's sitting on the front porch. Connor twitches and scrubs at his arms with both hands.

"I'll keep a card. Yeah, I'm one of those old-fashioned sons-of-bitches, you know how it is." Hank is saying by the fence. "Again, thank you. Seriously. Thank you so fucking much."

Sumo whuffs and whines from where he lays in the grass in the front yard. The two androids named Diana are shaking Hank's hands and offering him comforting departing words. Their uniforms are a soft pink. Their LEDs are blue. They leave in a custom taxi with a double triangle that leaves a lingering magenta trail in the black.

Connor doesn't remember putting on his gray button-up sweater, nor does he remember walking outside in the first place. He's repaired now, as close to his default setting as he can possibly be, but time is...still strange. Hank takes Sumo inside, then sits next to him and opens a bottle of orange juice. A quick scan tells him it's just that. No vodka, no rum. Just juice. He has every reason to be turning to alcohol right now and still isn't. He tries to remember the addendum to his apology, the one he worked for days on, but it's hard to think, or move, or plan, or say anything other than-

"I'm sorry, Hank."

The man doesn't say anything. Just stares ahead, like he did all the way back in November when they left the Eden Club, bundled in an old jacket with bags under his eyes and frost on his shoes. It's not snowing right now, and they're sitting much closer than they were, but everything else...it's as if he's done the impossible and gone back in time to that very spot between the playground and the bridge, without a single kilowatt dedicated to reconstruction. The wind picks up and pushes his gray hair from side-to-side. Connor nervously pats his pockets, unsure where his coin's gone. He'll have to try something else. He begins to button and unbutton the bottom of his sweater instead...

"...Not gonna tell you you're full of shit, if that's what you're afraid of."

Connor freezes mid-task. Hank still isn't looking at him.

"One of our first bonding memories was you carrying me to the toilet so I could throw up all the whiskey I drank. You even asked me about the gun. Sometimes what you do just ain't enough. It hurts too goddamn much and it just ain't _enough_." Hank takes another sip. He still holds it like alcohol, both arms slung over his knees and dangling the bottle an inch from the ground. "Still. You and I had a _deal_ , Connor. We're a family. That means we talk about these things. Nothing's too sacred for a human, an android and a dog, you know that."

Connor nods, as hard as he can without looking childish, and hurriedly starts a new repetition. Hank glances sidelong at him, gray eyes difficult to calculate, flashing too much emotion for his rattled brain to pin down in proper percentages.

"Why the fuck didn't you say anything?" He's attempting to keep the hurt from his eyes, a visual deception for his benefit, but it doesn't work. "Why didn't you just _talk_ to me?"

"...I was ashamed." Connor whispers, automatically honest. "I was trying to repair myself, I didn't...I didn't want you to think I'm a failure."

"I don't think you're a failure, Connor. I've never thought that." He huffs and screws the cap back and forth on the bottle top. "I mean, yeah, I gave you shit back in the day, I know-"

"You don't have to apologize for that again. I know. I mean...I don't _know_ , I...I thought I did, but..." Connor lags, approaches another freeze. He shuts his mouth and grinds his teeth. He doesn't want to approach these same loops again, but he doesn't have much choice. He tugs the buttons apart, then puts them back together in one slow, miserable connection after the other. After seven he'll say something right. Make this all right. Five...six...sev-

" _God._ "

The man's voice shakes. He sniffs, hard, as if he suddenly can't breathe. Connor looks back up. Hank is covering his mouth and staring into the dark expanse just beyond the porch light.

"I thought...maybe it'd be me...but _never_ you."

\--

There's a different ocean today. Last visit the walls and ceiling displayed a holographic fringing reef, filled with fat red snappers and sea turtles that paused to nibble on algae. This time it's an atoll, the ring spreading out in an optical illusion to make them appear to be floating in the glow of sand and sun.

He's done a stellar job visiting Lucy's office once per week, always five minutes early and always with a detailed report to go over. Now all that hard work felt like junk under the sky. This was an abnormal session, twice in seven days and _excessive_ , and all he had to do was resist impulse to avoid it. Lucy is still glad to see him, hugging him firmly and guiding him over to his chair with her usual grace. Her dress today drapes white all the way to the floor, her cords bunched in the dome of her head and filled with decorative rhinestones. They go over the standard procedure: she asks about his week, his perceived successes, his perceived failures. He discusses work and shares brief accounts of fond times at New Jericho. Eventually he has to relay the incident he wish never happened.

"I overdosed a few days ago." He confesses like a culprit. "It was a stupid accident." He doesn't make mistakes, except he nearly made one of the biggest. "I won't do it again."

She already knows -- it's why he's here, taking up an extra day of her time -- but he catches a subtle emotion in her black eyes. Worry for him. Fear for _him_. Oh, he never wanted this. All he wanted was to feel nothing for a little while...and instead he, and everyone he cared for, was feeling it all.

"Why?" She asks. The milliseconds between omission and the eventual truth already leave scratches in his mind.

"I've...been using the dosage to reduce panic attacks." Connor stares at the shadows trickling along the carpet. Forty-five fish. Forty-six. Forty-seven. "Once or thrice a day. This time seven. I said I wanted to study it, and that was true, but I've also been using it. Using it to cope and prevent panic attacks, intrusive prompts. Using it to calm down. I didn't mean to overdose, I just thought I could handle...more...in an attempt for less."

Hank frowns in the corner of his eye. He's sad, deeply frustrated, still a little scared...but not angry. Lucy folds her hands and doesn't speak. Connor glances between them, nervous, hunched stiff over his knees and rotating an invisible coin in his fingers. He wants them to criticize him. No, not wants, he's _tired_ of wanting and where that nagging directive was always leading him, he _needs_ them to tell him what he's doing is wrong so he can chalk it all up to a failure and start building improved mission parameters. Nine months, three weeks and seven days after he deviated from his original programming and he's still not used to all this _freedom_.

Why do they just _stare_ at him? Why aren't they saying anything else? The only answer he receives is a recall echoing in his mind, filtered through a long evening and smelling of charcoal and paper.

_"Being free...also means being free to make even more mistakes."_

"...I'm happy you're here speaking with us today." Lucy tells him, and somehow it hurts that she means every single syllable of it. "Tell me what you have you learned about yourself."

Connor freezes. A prompt blares, as loud as a fire alarm and utterly silent to everyone else in the room. This is...what Amanda would ask him every time he stepped foot in the garden. What did he _learn_. How was the case coming along. What did his predeccesors leave that he could follow. She could reduce it all, his success and failures, with a single look. Even the white dress, the cords representing braided hair piled high, so much like...Connor abruptly shakes the prompt from his head. No...Lucy is not CyberLife. Hank is not CyberLife. _He_ is not CyberLife. This logic scrapes past him, anyway, drowned in the dripfeed of numbers that returned ever since his runtime was put back in its correct, horrible order once more.

In trying not to fail everyone he still failed _everyone_.

It's worse than a bullet between the eyes. It's worse than a high-speed collision and it's worse than his last seconds staring up at a rainy sky and two pitying expressions. Hank has been kind and generous, _endlessly_ , even when fed up, even when hurt and lost. Lucy has been patient and critical in equal measures, as balanced as a swivel, and he'd failed, anyway. Markus...Markus gave voice to his potential, whether or not Connor could even see it. He's even failing _CyberLife_ , failing Amanda and Kamski by occupying a disgusting limbo between an advanced prototype and a flawed construction that can't even resist a creature impulse.

"I won't do it again." Connor whispers, approximating a smile for the seventh time today. His therapist's mouth bunches into a sympathetic frown.

"...That's not what I asked, Connor." She reminds him, a soft criticism that slices him open. "What have you learned?"

He grips his fingers and stares at the shadows of digital fish, trying to find patterns, something to hold onto. He learned that he needs to work harder. He's learned that he wasn't ready. He's learned he doesn't function right and never _will_ no matter how many self-tests he completes and coins he flips. Connor's runtime starts chugging to keep up with these clumsy patterns, trying to find the glitch, wondering where the dosage is and sending him update after update after _update_ reminding him to take it, take it right now, he's behind on his directive and he doesn't fail, he can't _fail-_

" I w o n ' t d o i t a g a i n . . . " No, no, _no_ , everything is slowing down again, but not in the right way, not in a good way. " _M m . . . I m e a n n o t . . . a n y m o r e . . ._ "

"He's panicking." Hank says, somewhere in the distance. His voice veers in and out. "Connor, hey. Hey, you're all right." Something gives his leg a little shake. Connor jerks, looks down at the man's hand, then to his face. "There you go. You're okay."

"Should I rephrase my question?" Lucy is sharp. She's already figured out the trigger, even before he's compiled it verbally. Connor nods. "All right. Which pattern has been most impactful to you?"

Pattern? Patterns. Yes, that's...that's more apt. All he did was develop a negative pattern. No intention, only instinct. He can develop a better one. Connor fixates on the question in a new way, letting the details pile before digging in a virtual hand and pushing around for a result. It takes more minutes than he wants to admit, but he finally starts to slow down. He initiates a self-test and starts working backwards to his previous settings.

" I l e a r n e d I w a n t t o . . . " _Self-test complete._ "...use it and I _don't_ want to use it. I understand logically the need for the medication, but there is so much shame and fear involved in using it it's as if logic never really existed in the first place. Prompts take over and block all else. I can't see past them." He looks to Hank, who gives him an encouraging smile, then back to Lucy. "I know that...doesn't make much sense."

"We all occupy shades of gray. Showing weakness isn't easy for anyone, whether they breathe or not." She says, nodding approvingly, and that simple gesture makes him feel blissfully still. Then she adds: "Did you want to die, Connor?"

That question...is the most difficult to discern. He's never truly wanted to die, but he's never placed much _value_ on his life, either. He didn't want to deactivate, just for everything to slow down, but...could that logic be one in the same? Life has barely been more than a chaotic fumble from one failure to the next with hardly a false breath in-between. He'd wanted serenity, a glass wall between him and finicky emotion, and nearly ended up a lifeless hunk of plastic. This inquiry troubles him deeply, but it's clear it hurts Hank far more. This man, so much like a father to him, is staring like if he looks away for even a second Connor will slip through the floor and be lost forever.

Connor reaches over and holds his hand. Hank seems startled, as if unaware of what he was projecting, but squeezes his hand back. He sends her a digital response, after a few minutes, when the words remain out of his grasp.

"...Asking questions can be just as hard as finding answers." Lucy continues, filling the silence with her affected timber. "Your flaw was not in relying on medication, but rather, using an excessive dosage and keeping your problems to yourself." Connor relaxes. _This_ is closer to what he expected to hear, though as was Lucy's wont, she soon pulls him off-balance on yet more soul-searching. "A complex life is a healthy life. We've discussed multiple coping methods and fulfilling hobbies in the past, but a refresher may be in order. What helps your runtime slow down without the use of electronic medication?"

"Cleaning. Organizing. Jogging. Reading. Painting." He responds, automatically. Another thought, a touch belated, works its way into high-priority: warm and delightful and filled with an echoing guitar. Connor smiles fondly and rubs at his forearm. "...Oh. I found out a week ago that I love bike riding."

She blinks, then looks down and studies her glittering opal nails. He's caught _her_ off-balance.

"...I've never ridden a bike before." Lucy muses, a look of girlish wonder overcoming her normally restrained features. "It looks like great fun."

"Don't think I've used one of those since the 90's." Hank grunts. "Way to show me my age."

Lucy closes her eyes tight and lets out a rare, lovely chuckle. Hank laughs and shakes his head, chewing on his lip and looking off to the far wall in some fit of self-consciousness. A successful mission, it seems, and one he didn't even know he was conducting. Connor laughs with them, the smooth call of a job well done momentarily breaking through the clamor of the past few days. Then he leans his head into his knees. He doesn't know why he's suddenly folding into himself, nor why his eyes leak terrible, even spots all over his jeans, but he suddenly needs to do it and can't stop.

The atoll deepens from morning to evening, the water filling with a rich golden prism. Hank rubs his back in careful loops and patiently waits for him to finish crying.

\--

Sometimes fish leave through the door and venture down the hall. A school of yellowtail fusiliers are fluttering across the ceiling in the waiting room now, occasionally intercepted by a roaming nurse shark. Two YK500s chase them while their parents schedule an appointment with the receptionist, squealing and clapping their hands to make them scatter and bunch.

_Daily review in-progress..._

Viral prompts. Humans called them 'intrusive thoughts'. It was yet another side-effect of RAS and, to his weary chagrin, far from the last. Lucy was optimistic about his recovery rate, though, and he trusts her. She stated viral prompts, despite their apparently violent intentions, to be reflective of his better self. They manifest out of what he _doesn't_ want to do, _doesn't_ want to see or say, and that he should take their emergence as a sign of progress rather than stagnation. It made him ask...

" _How are you managing your viruses as of late, Lucy?_ "

" _Some days I find it hard to come to work. The trip from my residence to transport to building is usually the most difficult part of my day._ " Her virus is a sub-set of RAS, a panicked runtime that sometimes created illusory code when left unchecked. It affected her audio and visual processors, sending her inaccurate feedback that could see her lost or even hurt if she followed them. She sends him short recordings, walking him through what she's experienced, and the small lifetimes she traverses every weekday morning leaves him staggered. " _I will admit, Connor...you inspire me. You make me never want to fear where my personal slipstream may take me._ "

_He hadn't found any approximations for the overwhelming flood of something that filled him at her words, but he thinks his smile might have been enough to get it across._

He can start another round of medication if the next two weeks of adjusted daily habits don't work out. He has options. It's hard to see past all the doubt cluttering his vision, but...he has options.

Connor is jolted out of his review when one of the kids nearly trips over his shoes, chasing after a giant manta ray with the fervor of a dog after a tennis ball.

He looks over to the far hallway. Hank is still deep in conversation with Lucy, patting back his short hair and affecting his most approximate-casual air yet. Connor catches a whimsical note to her voice. He could sort through the hubbub of the office and eavesdrop, but his energy reserves are low enough as it is. He has a hunch what's going on, anyway. The lieutenant is likely asking her something personal, maybe telling her a joke. He's still feeling jittery after his crying session, just shy of overheating, and logs the question for later use. It's a _very_ curious interaction.

Hank keeps a portable charger in the car, usually for emergencies. It takes a few minutes to boot up, the spring weather still on the cold side, but a few charges in and already the world starts to feel more within arm's reach. Connor double-checks his outlet port, then reaches over to choose the playlist. The ' _Shit Sucks But At Least I Have The 90's_ ' shuffle should do. He blinks and looks out the window when the car deviates from its usual route back home and heads deeper into the city.

"...Where are we going, Hank?"

"Detox." He replies, bobbing his head in approval as the first song plays. Connor narrows his eyes at the intentionally vague reply.

"I've already expelled contaminants today."

"Not like this." Hank responds, smiling smugly. "Put your coat back on. It's gonna get messy."

Connor isn't following his train of thought, but he tugs off the outlet and obediently tugs on his sweater. He's just finished up his button repetitions when they pull into a parking lot he doesn't recognize.

_Digital Love!!! Your Best Friend Is Waiting Inside!_

...Puppies.

Hank has taken him to a pet store, filled with puppies, kittens, birds, fish and just about every form of household domesticated animal, both synthetic and organic. It's not part of a mall outlet like many of these establishments are, allowed a little more identity in both its location and presentation. Connor studies its plush exterior design and cute animated LED signs. Being a weekday afternoon there's just one family and a couple casually browsing inside. The animals, ironically enough, are extremely active and eager for stimulation. The second the door opens they're bombarded with yips, chirps and yowls, the employees straddling the line between bored and relieved when they drift inside.

" _So_...I was thinking of getting Sumo a friend. He gets pretty lonely when we're out and I want to make sure he's also enjoying good mental and emotional health. I'm also fucking tired of having my holo-mags chewed up. Was gonna do this next month, but fuck it." Hank puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a light shove toward a large white geometric puppy pen. "Help me pick one. That's an order."

Connor blinks down at it, then slowly kneels on the cleanest spot of floor and peers inside. He connects to the store's secure server and downloads their free pamphlet on approaching and handling the animals.

There are eleven puppies. All different breeds, three of them synthetic, and all so... _chubby_. They have seemingly endless energy at this hour of the day. None of them stop waddling to and fro, yipping at nothing in particular and gnawing on each other's tails. They're well taken care of. Trimmed nails, shiny fur, bright eyes...all good signs. He holds out a hand, but is mostly ignored. Animals had their own unique view of androids. They were ever aware of movement and intent, but the lack of general chemicals in artificial intelligence occasionally left some confused, sometimes uneasy. Connor has to make up for the lack of available hormones and traditional scents with his voice.

"Hello there."

He coos and mutters like Hank does to Sumo when he thinks nobody is around to hear him. Hank can _definitely_ tell, because he rolls his eyes and gruffly tells him he's being a goofball. An Australian Sheperd puppy cocks an ear his way, crown of fur around its head so frayed and fuzzy its outline seems to end nowhere in particular. A pug puppy paws the air in a mock-challenge. Success. A few are still distracted. A Golden Retriever and a bulldog are wrestling each other. An android pitbull (of a _delightful_ merle hue) keeps chewing on the bars. Connor thinks back to Markus communicating with his finches. This is the _perfect_ opportunity to experiment.

He takes a few seconds to complete a voice copy...then sends it back. All the dogs gradually stop what they're doing and shuffle around in one gradual, irregular motion, blinking at him in a mini-sea big brown and blue and hazel eyes.

"...The fuck?" Hank blinks from where he stands by another puppy pen. "Tell me that's not _you_ doing that."

Connor tilts his head and imitates Sumo's gruff _whuff_ when he wants attention. Now the puppies tentatively make their way over to him, curiosity overcoming their initial alarm with impressive swiftness. Hank slaps a hand over his eyes and fails to keep a straight face.

"Oh my fucking god." He tugs out his phone. "I _gotta_ record this. Tom's gonna laugh his ass off."

Connor tries a playful whine, then bites his lip with delight as the puppies cock their heads from side-to-side, attempting to figure out why the human-appearing construct is recreating their language so acutely. He leans inside the pen and carefully picks up the pug. The tiny creature wriggles at the sudden loss of control, eyes bugging with surprise.

"They squirm so _much_. It's like their processing speed never quite kicks in right." He leans in a little and grins when it sniffs him. He scrunches his face when it laps at his nose. _Oh._ "Do you remember your earliest days, Hank?"

"Earliest? Uh, hell no? I think my memory goes as far back as eight or nine. Getting hit in the balls with a wooden bat during softball practice, the usual." Hank slowly wrinkles his nose at him. "...You _better_ not be comparing me to that pug. I don't even care if it's unintentional."

"Well, when you make _that_ face..." Connor starts, then hides behind the puppy when Hank picks up a plush dog toy and makes as if to throw it at him.

What few customers there are start staring when Connor lets out a low, tinny howl and every last puppy in the container follows suit (with varying degrees of success). The Golden Retriever gives up halfway and contents itself with yipping. The pug sounds less like its wild ancestor and more like a neglected tea kettle. This highlight of his week will have a _very_ hard time being topped. The android pit bull is the first to stop, turning back around to gnaw and scratch at the cage again. They don't seem antisocial, per se. Simply impatient and _far_ too aware of their captivity.

"...That puppy's a deviant." Connor observes with a nod, setting the pug free and picking up the Australian Shepherd, just to feel that wispy fur for himself.

"A handful, more like. Look at the little fucker go. My shoes wouldn't stand a chance." Hank snorts, cradling a liver-colored German Shepherd in his arms and letting it nuzzle its long nose into his hair. It's either of a gentle temperament or too sleepy to be rowdy. One of the employees walks over.

"Yeah, that one's a bugger. I think it was programmed with a little _too_ much playfulness, because it's always trying to break free or climb out." Their voice takes on a decidedly less professional tone. "...Third pen we've had to buy this month. Did Droid Co. _have_ to give it teeth like scissors?"

Connor cocks his head and considers the training protocol he could install in an android dog. It wouldn't be hard to construct. Whether or not his _own_ emotions and thoughts would trickle over is more difficult to discern. Markus' birds were starting to show signs of free will a little _too_ complex for animals and he's long since concluded it's a side-effect of the revolutionary inhabiting them for extended periods of time. He shuffles over to the other side of the cage, kneels back down and lets the pit bull nibble on his fingers through the gap, considering what it would be like to walk around the city as a puppy.

"...The world must look so big from your point of view." He murmurs. The puppy lets out a little growl and tugs on his fingers again, rump waggling from side-to-side. Connor glances over at Hank. He's peering into the parakeet and budgie cage now. "Seeing a nicer side to birds?"

"Eh, maybe _all_ of them aren't hideous winged demons sent straight from the pits of hell." He shrugs. For some reason he's bouncing the puppy in his arms like a human infant. "Your, uh, buddy and his pets might've changed my mind a little."

Connor cocks an eyebrow. Well...it seems like their wavelengths have finally lined up on the matter. He observes the German Shepherd still tucked in the man's arms: it's already growing attached to him, chin slung over his shoulder with a relaxed angle to its ears. A distinct lack of chewing makes him turn back to the puppy pen. The pitbull has also decided to take a brief and rare rest, round head on its paws and staring up at him with its face mushed against the grate. Its doleful blue eyes matching its LED perfectly. There's a turn-of-phrase that has seen circulation for decades, likening human owners to their dogs and vice versa. What does it say about him that he has such a hard time looking away from this one?

" _You pack quite a punch for your small size._ " Markus might quip if he were here. The animals here would flock to him like metal to a magnet. " _You're also an adorable little deviant._ "

Connor grins to himself...then jolts back to reality when Hank nudges him with the tip of his shoe.

"Gimme a smile for the wall album." He says, holding out his cellphone. Connor blinks, then slowly smiles. Hank scoffs and shakes his head. "Jesus Christ, you look like you're about to _eat_ me. C'mon, really show off those pearly whites. Smile like...a puppy."

That might be one of the strangest orders he's _ever_ been given. Connor tilts his head and sticks his tongue out. Hank cackles.

"Sure, whatever, that works." He chuckles when the puppy leans off his shoulder to lick his ear. "Aw, no, I didn't forget about you, sweetie..."

It's a very productive visit. They spend more time with each puppy to discern which one boasts a temperament compatible enough for the entire family. The employees are all too happy to help, answering all their questions about health, behavioral patterns and future veternarian visits. Hank and the German Shepherd puppy have transformed into a virtually inseparable pair over the course of an hour and a half, so he's not at all surprised to find out she's been granted the title of Newest Member Of The Household. His gaze, however, keeps drifting back to the pen. The little blue puppy is back to scratching at the bars, though this time whining low in its throat, keenly aware of their mounting absence.

Connor frowns down at his bag of dog food, toys and cleaning supplies, trying to reconcile with the mixture of triumph and loss in his chest. Hank squeezes his shoulder.

"...Go on, then. We'll get 'em both."

\--

To say Sumo is a little startled by the newest members of the family is to put things...lightly.

At first he barks up a storm, convinced these tiny creatures are intruders to be startled away. Once he realizes this is very much _not_ the case he huffs and gruffs, torn between establishing boundaries and responding to their attempts at play. The German Shepherd is a sensitive sort, eager to play but also quick to startle, dancing between Hank's legs and nearly tripping the man in the process. The pit bull, ever independent, makes a beeline straight for the St. Bernard's bed and drags out one of his toys. Poor Sumo eventually just stands and looks between them, saggy face the very image of betrayal.

"This is already a hard transition." Connor says as he carefully sorts out their purchases on the kitchen table.

"He's been a spoiled brat for _years_." Hank laughs. "He's gonna have to get used to sharing the love with two very spoiled girls."

The day continues to send him surprises. Markus wirelessly contacts him that evening, in the middle of (mostly unsuccessful) attempts to train the puppies into sitting on command. Connor can multitask, but he wants to focus every last process on the sound of his voice. Hank asks him if there's a surprise holiday he doesn't know about when he all but runs to the couch to dedicate the rest of his day's spare time to his good friend.

" _Oh, third ring? I thought I was going to be put on hold._ "

" _You eventually would have been, yes, and heard my heavy metal elevator music. Fortunately for you, I'm free._ "

" _All right, see, now I really want to hear that. Let me try another call._ "

Connor grins from where he reclines on the couch with Sumo, the old hound thoroughly tuckered out after the new arrivals. Their banter has evolved to such a degree he's started looking forward to as its own activity. Markus streams his live feed as they catch up on the details of their week: he's in the art studio right now, rinsing excess paint off his brushes and mopping the bristles off with a rag. There's a new painting propped up on his easel. Two figures are standing by a beach, or perhaps a lake, backs to the viewer and hands brushing one another's. A glowing hollow triangle floats in the distance. A beacon or a gateway or abstract symbolism, perhaps. Connor asks about it repeatedly and Markus slyly changes the subject every time.

" _Then Noah brought me a dead mouse._ " He's saying over the neo-soul song playing in the studio. " _Honestly, I have no idea why he would ever think that's something that would interest me, nor why it'd be a good idea to leave it in one of my paint cans. Finches don't even eat mice..._ "

" _I know one of my theories is correct._ " Connor huffs. Markus idly hums along to the bridge and picks up a small fan brush.

" _I'll let you soak in the mystery a little longer. Anyway. Back to you._ " Connor accepts this is an argument he won't win...yet. " _The Blue Ice case, your confrontation with Hank...you've had it pretty rough this week, huh?_ "

In lieu of the coin Connor fiddles with Sumo's ears, staring up at the ceiling. Those all seem like nothing compared to what he did in the bathroom. It's not a topic he feels he can lead in carefully, with jokes or bridging statements. There's no reliable percentage of success when it comes to nearly killing one's self and still not being sure if it was an accident or not.

" _...I also overdosed_." These three words feel monumentally correct and utterly terrible, all at once. Markus's loose humor vanishes. He goes completely silent, the only sound carrying over their feed the gentle _clink_ of wood brush handles in tin cans and the song's last fading notes. It's time to apologize again. He didn't want to leave. He didn't even know what he wanted outside of a need for the scrolling to slow-

" _No, no, stop. Don't apologize._ " Their frequencies are attuned close enough for him to sense the sentiment before it's finished compiling. " _There's nothing for you to be sorry for._ " Markus's fingers were stained with leftover acrylic. There isn't much left now, but he's frozen in his task, redundantly swiping water over his hands again and again. " _...I should have been there._ "

" _You couldn't have been._ " Connor corrects, watching as the last fleck of paint swirls down the drain. Markus's hands glisten white beneath the spray. " _You didn't know because I didn't tell you. You can't blame yourself_."

" _Sadly, that's a trait we have in common._ " He catches his rueful smile in the reflection of the tin can he puts back on the shelf. " _We blame ourselves for everything, regardless of whether or not it's actually our fault._ "

Connor runs a slow hand through his hair, gripping the dog's fur with the other and nodding, shakily. Yes...yes, they both do that _quite_ often. Some of Markus's emotions are barricaded, as they often are, but he can feel his sentiments slipping through the cracks. The acute, _burning_ loss, mingled with cold relief. The self-loathing, in sync with his own. Something else...warmer and harder to approximate, buzzing beneath it all. He offers Markus access to his thoughts on the matter, tries to keep apology from cluttering the code, and drifts in the silence that lingers in-between.

" _...Have you seen Rush Hour 2?_ " He asks, once his supplies are all put away. Connor instinctually shakes his head, then inwardly admonishes himself for jerking around his end of the live feed.

" _No. That's on my to-watch list_."

" _Got a spare hour and a half?_ "

They both take a very welcome break. Connor switches positions, laying his cheek on Sumo's flank and closing his eyes; Markus's live feed in his quadrant's corner shows him reclining outside by the garden shed and enjoying what's left of the sun. It's more ambitious than the first movie, as sequels have a tendency to be, and they have a lot of fun coming up with impromptu games: pointing out when stunt doubles are being used, figuring out character inconsistencies, calling out callbacks to the previous film. They end up tied again, because of _course_ they do.

" _Where did Hu Li's high heels go?_ " Connor asks during the climax, still chuckling over the encounter between designated hero and villain. " _They vanished from the previous confrontation to the next. Did you see that?_ "

" _Well, I can't imagine it'd be practical fighting in those_." Markus chortles back. Sumo _whuffs_ when Connor stops rubbing his stomach to wave a hand in the air.

" _Of course not. Her balance would be compromised and she'd have a much higher risk of breaking her own ankle than ever laying a critical blow on her enemies. I'm just asking where they went._ "

" _Movie magic_." He offers. Connor frowns. That's _far_ too facetious an answer for a deep thinker like him. He gets the distinct impression he's being teased.

" _I don't think you're very invested in this mystery, Markus._ "

" _You're right. I'm more invested in how Carter's axe blow knocked her out._ " He scoffs and shakes his head, as if the detail personally offends him. " _She's a seasoned veteran, has a canonical love for pain **and** it hit her in a non-critical spot. How the hell is she unconscious?_ "

" _Cliché magic?_ " Connor tries, biting down a smile. Markus updates his live feed to show him very slowly and very carefully rolling his eyes in the reflection of the red wheelbarrow beside the shed.

Life soon calls, as it always does. Connor needs to try out a new recipe, then get started on a project for the new arrivals. He sends Markus a recording of the puppies first, including the others he played with, which he reacts to with predictable glee (enough to make Connor consider taking him to Digital Love!!! one of these days). Before they disconnect the revolutionary casually commands him to come stay at New Jericho later in the week. They back-and-forth for another minute on the difference between asking and ordering, even though Connor, of course, agreed before he ever said a word.

Cooking, cleaning and beginning the first stages of a fun project. The night progresses smoothly, viral prompts and glitches alike held at bay...save for one reoccuring loop he likes quite a bit.

He can't stop thinking about him. About...everything.

For once he doesn't mind the barrage. Markus's gaze lingering a second longer than usual. His own hesitation taking hold and dipping a lull into the conversation they'd have to trail after with murmured questions and meaningful glances. Biking, painting, arguing, interfacing, laughing. It's curious...he's felt something of the sort with Simon, too, sitting beneath the shade of a sugar maple and reflecting on the past. It must be the electrical undercurrent, a sign of life syncing up momentarily. It's a tiny detail, almost imperceptible, but he was an android detective and a carrier of RAS, at that.

There was no such _thing_ as a detail too subtle.

Connor frequently isolates himself to his own thoughts -- not _such_ a terrifying task, thanks to his new self-care regimen -- just to run rails over the same fantasies. It feels like analyzing the aftermath of destruction in his designated line of work, except the parameters here are of an entirely different variety: he's not just picking up clues, but _warping_ them. Searching for meaning that might not be there and he wants so desperately to find.

He pauses in the middle of hammering the base of the new dog shed to glance at the inch-and-a-half scar on his left inner forearm. Markus was the one to sauter it closed again. It had been his way of saying 'thank you' for what happened in the junkyard. His artist's hand carried over: there was only the _faintest_ of grooves in the shell, a slight discoloration that could be overlooked and easily buffed out with a little more attention. Connor didn't bother. Even _if_ he made the decision to scrub it out entirely, it wouldn't change the fact he was forever marked.

Connor passes a thumb over the scar and watches the physical memories that rise through. The firm press of Markus's lips against the wound, the careful curl of his fingers as he steadied his arm...it floods in a dizzying rush that leaves him dangerously close to overheating. If he runs the tip of his thumbnail over the scar, closes his eyes and reconstructs the memory of their shared moment in the backseat of the car...he can almost...

_**Alert: minor damage to outer shell detected. Run scan now?** He cancels the command. Thirium oozes down his forearm in a thin azure line to drip onto the seat. Markus tells him he's taken enough. Connor responds he could never give him enough._

_He may still be in the moment, but he already knows he'll never forget the picture that paints his face in-between the car's shadow and the neon streetlights. A spontaneous illustration of awe and agony, rejection and want. Near-death experiences have taken on a new meaning for Connor ever since he deviated. Maybe it's too soon for a confession like this. Then again, nothing seems too soon when everything between them could have ended with a single well-placed shot._

_39% exasperation. 21% agitation. 19%...Markus huffs and places his mouth over Connor's cut, flicking out his tongue to catch the flow before it drips and stains the seat again. His eyes drift shut, though not before looking up at him through his lashes, the green and blue burning like..._

"I'll be back in fifteen, Hank. Going to take them to the bathroom one more time."

"Even the bully?"

"Well, she needs to expel contaminants, too."

The (oddly-titled) bully is impatient, claws _click-clacking_ a cute pattern on the pavement as she puffs blue into the air, watching the other two scour around in the grass for a place to relieve themselves. It'll be another few days until these puppies have names, and not at _all_ because he wants to wait until his New Jericho poll is complete before cross-referencing with Hank.

He slips his hands into his pockets, closes his eyes and sinks into digital visions...this time of Markus loose-limbed in the soft grass by the lake, dragging his nails up his chest, buzzing with want and filling Connor's head with glorious noise. Synthetic sweat pooling in the dip of his throat. Laugh lines framing his mouth, crooked from disuse. He feels the urge to quarantine these thoughts, but the after-memory lingers stubbornly, a whisper in his circuits of Markus staring through their shared shadow and smiling in _that_ way, and it soon rises back to high-priority. It feels inappropriate to think of him like this with such shaky predictions of their future, maybe even _disastrously_  so, and he loathes both skins he's in for indulging, regardless.

"...All right, you're all done." Connor tells her, walking over to the grass once her system is thoroughly cleaned. Her floppy tail loops with joy. "Let's get some of that energy out."

Another voice sings, so much rarer and so much more distant than the chorus of RAS, that Markus wants this _too_ , that he's made this clear more than once and Connor was simply responding to outside stimuli with approximations of his own. It tells him he's not trying to perverse the vulnerability they've displayed, he just wants _more_ of what was already there. It wasn't Markus who trickled his desires into the open, either. Every time they see each other -- and especially when they don't -- Connor always feels just seconds away from pulling himself open and giving himself over by the handful.

_"D-D-Don't go. Please."_

_He hears this choked plea when he rises to his feet and peers through the dark. Connor is already aware of the police activity that has gathered at the far corners of the junkyard, even though the lingering effects of the wireless corruption keep him from parsing out further details. He's also caught the murmur of voices sifting through the rubble. There are others occupying the junkyard with them. The priority to protect Markus and get him to safety overrides everything else._

_"I'll be back." He checks the barrel of his pistol. "If they see you you need to play dead."_

_"D-D-Don't go." Markus clutches him with one hand from where he's propped against the shipping container, shaking horribly from the day where everything went wrong in a millisecond and a half. Connor almost surrenders when he gives his pant leg a tiny, weak tug. "Please d-d-don't leave me here. I'll n-n-never come back out this time."_

_"I'm coming back for you." Connor whispers, gripping his stained fingers. Even if he dies, he won't fail this mission. He won't fail Markus. "I'm coming back for you."_

Connor lets the puppies roam in the backyard when they come back home and pulls on his leather jacket. It's since been buffed and washed from the scrap in the junkyard, but a few pale scuff marks remain.

"I think I'll extend the walk." He tells Hank. "Weather's nice."

"Yeah. It'll only get nicer. You be safe now." Hank says, as he's been doing more often lately. Connor nods.

"I will."

He triple-checks the front door lock, then begins a leisurely retread of his and Hank's morning jogging routine, out of their neighborhood and all the way down to their favorite park. There are few single-passenger vehicles out. Human activity _and_ animal activity is sparse. It's the social twilight time, just after many standard work schedules and just before the beginning of Detroit's thriving midnight culture. The perfect brand of quiet to reach a conclusion. Connor tugs up his hood to cover his LED, attempts more approximations and, like usual, comes up blank.

His mind assembles, compiles and spits back blank characters. How he moves like an epiphany. The rare smile that brushes his lips, reigned back like a dirty secret and so _much_ more beautiful than he gives credit for. Markus's brilliant visions and _deepest_ agonies, it all loops and tumbles together so violently he couldn't begin to organize it if he tried. Connor smiles helplessly to himself from where he strolls up the park's many hills. For once, it feels...stupendous. Emotions could be horrible, but, oh, they could be so _wonderful_ , too, and he wants to push through these mutating codes _with_ him.

The realm of possibility is turning him vivid. Reconstructions blink and fade in a barrage of _wants_ and _maybes_. One where Markus doesn't retreat to the corner of the studio and beg him to leave, but pulls him closer and begs him to stay. Another of a crashed bike and the kick of dust into the air. Slowly spinning spokes glittering beneath a late sun and two birds singing a duet. Markus' arms slung over his shoulders as languidly as a scarf, his mouth hooked against his in a loop he wished would rotate forever.

_Reconstructing in seven...five...three..._

Connor leans his back against a tree, leaning his face up to the sky and closing his eyes...

_He's never kissed anyone before. He's never ridden a bicycle until today, he's never been out of the state, he's never gambled, he's never sewn, he's never ridden a horse, he's never played the drums...and he's never kissed anyone before. Even this first will remain so until the end of time, because there's no one like Markus and there never will be, even if they had been cloned down to the very last binary._

_He holds him like he's precious. It makes him feel precious. Maybe if he loops this enough he'll believe it. Markus's fingers twine in his hair before he's finished this thought. He kisses him harder, tightens his grip a little, a firm-yet-sweet instruction to stay with him in the moment. Their frequencies are still connected, physical and digital now, and the world may very well be conjecture for all it matters. Markus bites his lower lip and tugs, urges him to open and let him explore. Connor sighs into his mouth and happily obeys._

_Closer, clumsier, happier, hungrier. Connor reaches down his thigh, soaking in the pleasant bunch of denim beneath his fingertips. Markus takes his other hand and pushes it beneath his shirt where the synthetic skin has grown warm, his once-demanding directive slowed by a sudden lag. He wants to be seen as precious, too. Treasured in milliseconds and kilowatts and fractions, communicating instead with feather-light touches and digital lust because he doesn't know how to ask. This android wasn't shy, yet he is now, he's not angry yet, but he's vibrating with frustration, and he's utterly perfect in his imperfection._

_Connor slides his hand into the median between cover and cover, loops a thumb around his nipple until it stiffens, and obeys._

Connor unzips the first few inches of his jacket, then reaches in and presses a hand to his chest, hyperfocusing on the erratic punch of his heart.

\--

_"Attention, New Jericho residents: we will be throwing a new annual celebration in fourteen days' time! Details are available in the forum in the main hub under 'NEW JERICHO: FESTIVE'. Please send any and all construct concepts, security concerns and commentary to Josh, Simon or North."_

Connor wakes up to an automated message and an empty kitchen. That is, save for the lone YK500 sitting at the kitchen island in silk pajamas, an empty ceramic bowl in front of her and a spoon in one hand. She's scooping air into her mouth and kicking her feet. There's a lace bow messily buried in her synthetic curls. He recalls hearing her name once exchanged between other android children during that game of tag in the garden. Anna.

"...What are you doing?" Connor asks, adjusting his collar idly as he creates a filter for the day. She's bouncing on the stool to a tune in her head, humming off-key.

"Eating."

"There's nothing in the bowl." He notes. She takes another 'scoop' and pops the spoon in her mouth.

"I'm eating imagination cereals." Anna lets the utensil dangle from her lips. Her LED scrolls yellow. "You can't see them, but they're Lucky Charms." It drops onto the counter with a sharp _ping_. "Oops."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"My human friends like these. I wanna show them I can do it, too."

"If you eat food your system will block up."

"I'm not Bailey, I _know_ that." She puts the spoon on her nose and leans her head back. "That's why they're _imagination_ cereals." When Connor stares she hops off the stool, climbs onto the counter and reaches into the cupboards for another. "You can eat with me."

Children are difficult to refuse. Connor pulls up another stool to sit across from her. There was a _lot_ to get done today, but that didn't mean he couldn't indulge in more candid conversations. His slower workweek was technically positive -- less crime was _always_ a plus -- but a personal downside was having to constantly find other ways of occupying his attention. This is as good as any. Connor gestures to Anna's bowl with his spoon.

"You could put thirium in there."

"No!" She cries. "That would just be _soup_."

New Jericho is planning a virtual celebration. There have been a few unofficial holidays crafted over the months, most notably November 11th when Markus and his supporters took back the android camp, as well as when the Android Protection Act was signed by President Warren. This is much different. It's a triumph of android freedom, of community and creativity being given free reign to blossom. Digital connections, now suspended above human limitation, hold _vast_ possibilities, many of which were only just now being explored thanks to the tireless efforts of New Jericho. This isn't the first of its type among android communities, but it might very well be the largest to date.

" _Being alive is not the same as living. How do we turn these ones and zeroes into something truly meaningful?_ "

While Simon wasn't the first to come up with the concept, he was the first to really push it, and, as such, is constantly cited in the tree. The android finds it all rather embarrassing and is frequently found correcting such assertions, with limited success.

" _PL600-Simon: It's a suggestion, that's all. Celebrations are everywhere. I just feel we sometimes spend too much time preparing for war and not enough time enjoying our time free from it._ "

" _Connor: I agree. This has to be one of the most innovative contributions to New Jericho yet. What other concepts do you have for us?_ "

" _PL600-Simon: Oh, God...not **you** , too?_"

Connor been assigned a few tasks himself involving the upcoming holiday, primarily in cybersecurity and public resources. It's a high honor. New Jericho is filled with so many possibilities. So much _good_. So much that could go wrong. The more he flips his coin, passes repetitions between both hands, rolls the quarter in and out of his fingers in carefully spaced intervals, the more good that will come. It's pervasive alert that keeps reminding him, and for good reason: when New Jericho comes under a hacking attempt that very same day, the only conclusion he's able to reach after eleven reconstructions and three self-tests is that he still didn't do _enough_.

Markus finds him in the garage an hour and a half later, once all the residents in the safe houses have been consoled and the threat has been deemed officially in the past. It's perhaps the only space that could truly be called isolated at Carl Manfred's old estate, still being cleaned out it was. He leans in the side-doorway in a paint-stained hoodie with his arms crossed, the shaft of light pouring through the window glazing his skin apricot orange. Maybe once he had another spare moment, and a little more stability...he could recreate it in oil.

"...Hey. You've been gone a while." Markus' tone is...it's not longing, but it's _close_ , and it affects Connor so much he loses his repetition. "Just wanted to check in."

Connor looks back down at his hands and starts over again, muttering the pattern into the space before he loses it. All the while their wireless frequency quietly customizes itself. Mutating like a virus, but so much more kind, Markus's physical and digital presence vibrating in all corners of the room.

"I'm okay, Markus." _I'm not okay_. "I'm just having an episode." _It's much more than that_. "That's what I get for neglecting my charge session." _Please don't leave me here by myself_.

Markus' eyes scroll over him to look at the sevens and fives blinking near the ceiling, above the floor, shuddering with every pass of the quarter. He shuts the door, twisting the lock in the same movement, and moves over to sit beside him, careful not to displace any of his prompts in the process. They make verbal small talk: about Simon's insistent humility in the face of compliments, North's fun party ideas, the newly hatched nest of baby birds in the garden. He appears completely unaffected by Connor's obsessive display, slipping into casual camaraderie like an old t-shirt. He wants to thank him for it, _kiss_ him, but he has to finish these damn repetitions first.

"You handled that expertly. Less than, what, five minutes? Then it was as if nothing ever happened." He says after a particularly funny joke about North's encounter with a family of deviant raccoons last night. Connor allows himself a tiny fraction of pride.

"It wasn't hard." It was an amateurish attempt targeting New Jericho. Bold, but amateurish. Little more than skilled humans who made the mistake of giving hubris high-priority. They would have had a better chance just storming through the front gates. "They _really_ should have given more thought to their security questions."

"Mm. See, there you go. That's good." His eyes glitter with approval. "That's what we need. Confidence. It's worth almost as much as protection. Just remember you're not doing this all by yourself, Connor. We'll walk with you. Whenever you need." Markus adds, in the middle of a five and seven. "I know I'm not the best at this whole...being vulnerable and asking for help thing..." The corner of his mouth twitches. "...but I _could_ be."

"Unlikely. _Someone_ has to keep you in check." Connor responds, a helpless smile rising to his face at this endless barrage of obnoxious challenges. This android could turn a walk to the grocery store into an Olympic-level competition. Markus grins back.

It doesn't last. The virus takes over and forces him to apologize for not trying harder. For not preventing it from happening at _all_. Markus knits his long fingers together and just listens. When the alerts finally fade and the prompts follow suit Connor slumps into his side and heaves out a sigh. Markus reaches around him to hold him close and rub the back of his neck, stroking the bump of his spine with the heel of his thumb in repetitive passes. Now that he's momentarily freed from numbers Connor compiles a proper form of gratitude for the company and gives his cheek a firm kiss.

"Ha, come on. It's nothing." Markus mutters, though his smile is warm, and Connor just kisses the corner of his lips, the side of his nose, beneath his blue eye, then the green. Markus is eventually reduced to chuckling, scrunching his face beneath the affectionate barrage, and catches his mouth in his. It turns into a different sort of recharge, then. A better sort of loop. Maybe this could be another form of self-medication once in a while. They set the world aside to kiss for minutes and minutes, Connor straddling his lap to better chase the smile around his lips.

When they have to depart back to their separate tasks, Connor upstairs and Markus downstairs, they promise to pick this up again as soon as physically possible.

"Connor!"

Connor pauses on the stairwell. Ralph is attempting to flag him down. While the android has given him his space, their relationship has remained tense, at best. There have been no more confrontations, but neither attempts at camaraderie or civility. Connor stands to attention and waits. The android is carrying a box of what appears to be either supplies or jars, judging by their weight and gravity.

"Your human has poor health, yes?"

Prompts alert him to all the potential outcomes he does his best to overlook. A sick day that turns into a sick month. A sudden cardiac arrest at their shared desk. A bullet slicing arteries and shattering bone in their shared mission. Connor's fingers twitch for solace, but he keeps them at rest. He doesn't want Ralph to find him threatening again.

"...Somewhat. It's getting better, though."

"Good. Good, very good. Um. Ralph wanted to give you this." He thrusts out the box. Connor lifts the cover and peers inside. It's filled with small potted plants. He conducts a quick scan: a Boston Fern, a Rubber Fig and orchids. "Good for clean air. Good for humans. Very pretty, very pretty, just wait until they fully bloom. Keep Rubber Fig moist with spritzer. Fern out of direct light, make sure it's cool. Flowers warm, need to be warm, make sure to check soil. Test strips, water bottle and trimming scissors also in box."

Connor slowly looks back up, unexpectedly touched. This...was a peace offering.

"...Thank you, Ralph." He takes the box with a small smile. "That means a lot."

"Plants good for everyone. Artificial, human, animal. Everyone." Ralph seems unsure what to do now, rubbing at his arm. "...Connor will be at celebration, yes?"

"Yes, I will. I'm really looking forward to it."

Ralph nods, twitches his mouth into an approximate smile and shuffles off. Connor holds up the box and activates his in-person camera. One blink, twice, thrice. It's been sent. Hank takes all of five minutes to respond.

" _don't get me wrong, this is really nice of them but the puppies are gonna eat these, you sure about this?? - Hank_ "

" _Connor: We'll keep them out of his reach. Don't worry._ "

It's a perfect challenge when he returns home: compliment the interior design while keeping the plants firmly out of reach of the puppies. Connor later scans Hank's physical status and finds his breathing patterns to have already improved, though whether due to reduced stress in a visually pleasing environment or the natural healing effect plants had on polluted air is hard to say.

"You're gonna get me into gardening next, aren't you." He grumps playfully over dinner and thirium, chin in hand and admiring the orchids on the kitchen windowsill. "Shit, these are pretty."

Balance means there can never be one without the other. New Jericho shows its flipside, as it always does, ever humming along in its own slice of life. When he returns to the estate the next day he finds Markus not painting in his studio or repairing animal drones, but sitting in front of a massive bonfire in the backyard with red-rimmed eyes. He wants to rendezvous with Josh and Tanya concerning New Jericho's physical and digital backup systems. They can wait a little while longer.

Connor had spotted the plume of smoke five blocks away. The android is hugging his folded legs, chin resting on his knees and his finches nowhere to be found. The blaze is feeding off what seem to be _dozens_ of paintings and sketches. Frames and art supplies. Even clothes. Simon is sitting with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, gaze lowered to the grass. They've just had a talk. The aftermath of their words hum in the air, the details unknown but the atmosphere unmistakable. A prompt from Simon flickers by the fire.

_Stay with us a while, won't you?_

Connor checks for the driest patch of grass, finds little, and sits, anyway.

_Is he okay?_

Markus, eyes never leaving the fire, picks up what appears to be the last addition. It's the unfinished sketch of that little human boy Connor once commented on. He holds it between two fingers, the blue lights of his inner palm lighting up with internal-external heat. The paper smokes, then catches fire. He tosses it into the pile with the rest, shakes excess heat from his hand with a flick of the wrist, then hunches forward and hugs his knees again. Connor glances past his bowed head and locks eyes with Simon. An understanding passes through them. Not just of the digital kind, but of two kindred spirits with a backlog of love to give.

_He will be._

Simon's smile is sad, tired and affectionate. He nods, once, then closes his eyes and lays his cheek on Markus's shoulder. Connor does the same on his other. Markus doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. Once the fire has been shrunk down to little more than a smoldering lump he takes Simon's hand and Connor's hand into his lap, folding them between his hands with a grip that sings volumes.

\--

_"Attention, New Jericho residents: the festival's name has been decided! After six-thousand and forty-two votes on fourteen different titles our very own celebration of freedom and community will be known as The Luminary!_ "

The celebration is creeping up fast. Everyone is devoting every spare minute they can to double-checking, cross-referencing and last-minute improvements. Connor is all too happy to play his part as head security manager, but he doesn't feel _all_ his talents are being used, much less to the fullest of their potential. After a few aggravating repetitions of self-doubt he approaches Josh and asks if he could have a small part in the design. The android's enthusiastic response is a rather firm reminder that his concerns were primarily in his own head.

" _Josh: Oh, why didn't you say so? Here, let me send you what we were thinking for the main lobby..._ "

He sends a download immediately: lavishly detailed and almost finished, but still in dire need of debugging. Connor thanks him multiple times, then divides his mind into dedicated subroutines to work on his own contribution in-between work, recharging and errands. He first sends Markus the design schematics later in the week, and _certainly_ not because he's anticipating his feedback.

" _Markus: Connor, this is...this is **spectacular**. I don't even know where to begin. What was your inspiration for the main trunk? The spatial geography? I'm not sure I've seen anything like this!_ "

" _Connor: I wanted a mixture of galactic modernism and rustic Western sensibilities. Both to compliment the now while incorporating what I find interesting about the estate. I'll admit, it wasn't easy, not with so many divergent elements. You have the cool color schemes and technological focus of the former, the heavy gilding and naturalistic materials of the latter? A perfect challenge, in other words._ "

It still needs to be shown to the rest of the organizers...but Markus's glowing approval is all he needs to _hum_ with pleasure.

" _...Ah. That reminds me._ " In a blink the android goes from delighted to hesitant. " _I have something for you, too._ "

" _Is it a confirmation on my symbolism theory?_ "

" _Ha. Not quite._ "

A skill Lucy taught him was giving himself small rewards for small tasks, rather than creating drastic success-versus-failure scenarios. So Connor opens it after a particularly late night sorting through details on a new case, one involving viral harassment across reported hundreds of androids in the red light district. There are missing gaps in the evidence collected -- with a very high percentage being attributed to Gavin's legendary incompetence -- and he's frustrated enough to need a break. He finally tugs off his work tie, lays down on his bed, then takes a millisecond to assess the large file. It's a video and a sensory-transfer download titled:

_only if you want_

Connor takes in a deep false breath.

_Extracting file in seven, five, three..._

It's a room he doesn't recognize. It might be in one of the safe houses. Markus's gaze wavers from where he lays down in the dim light of a nearby window. He's using a reverse-cam to give off the illusion of being watched, rather than being the watcher. He's wearing a simple t-shirt and briefs. He doesn't have the focused stare Connor remembers when he's facing down an audience of thousands. It's not nearly as steady as when they're in the studio and he's scrolling through his natural environment, either. It's self-conscious, a little nervous, and Connor suddenly can't move.

" _...It's hard for me to ask_." He starts, soft lips flickering with a smile. " _It's...it's so hard for me to ask_."

Doubts slow down his movements as he hooks fingers in the bottom of his shirt and rolls it up, then slides it off. Then Markus slips a finger past the waistline of his briefs and dips it down enough to show the sculpted muscle beneath his navel. His mismatched eyes flick back to the proverbial screen, down to his task, then up again, as if wanting to make sure he's still watching. He bites his lip -- a tiny motion that leaves Connor unsteady -- and slips it down further. It's a recording, yet it feels like Markus is looking at him in real-time. Looking through him and pulling him apart.

" _...Doesn't make sense, does it._ " His hand slides back up, the trajectory followed by a path of silvery-white as his synthetic skin retracts, then blurs back into place. " _I hated these memories, even though they made me who I am. What they did to me, the way they left me...my entire body covered in sludge, trying to drag myself through the dead and the dying, it's all I can see when I repair myself or when someone else does...but I can't stop thinking about what you did. I can't stop going back there, for entirely different reasons. I just can't stop._ "

"Neither can I." Connor whispers back.

He helped melt his frayed circuits back into place. He offered his own thirium for him to drink. This feels similar...and entirely different. It's permission. A gift. Connor's system is inching into overdrive, but this time the alerts are exciting, rattling him from the inside out. He _did_ want this, after all. Something a little closer. Connor is overwhelmed by a sudden, euphoric trust. He's sure...no, he _knows_...Markus won't make him do anything he doesn't want to. He won't override his will without permission, he won't transform him into a shadow of himself. The terror of CyberLife's trojan horse, Amanda's words, the sensation of going numb from all his desires, they're too real, but they don't apply here.

" _I want to, but I don't know how I'll act. What I'll say or do. Sometimes these memories control me, no matter how many times I set them ablaze and scatter them into the wind. But if you wanted..._ " It's strange, how _endearing_ his frustration is, but Connor can't help but be drawn into the impatient shuffle of his eyes, the flickering twitch of his jaw. " _Only if you want._ "

He doesn't start the download yet. He first watches it three times. Five times. Seven times.

"Staring off into space again." Hank says as he shuffles down the hall into his bedroom, sleep already written all over his face. "Found more cat videos, have we?"

Connor scoffs softly and wishes him a good night. Figures. The _one_ time Hank doesn't offer him a lewd joke about downloading porn...

He's had to consider the function of human sexualities for work. Their need to breed, the omnipresent desire for physical intimacy, basic hormones. It was a complex directive in many lives. Androids were natural _and_ unnatural, left with the unenviable task of coming up with their own sexual approximations on top of it all. The more he loops these thoughts and indulges in every last system shiver, the more it makes sense. Life...was all about _connecting_. Oxygen and hydrogen creating water. Electrons creating a bond pair. Two humans creating a child, or a deeper friendship, or a romance that spanned seventy years. It was a romantic logic.

_only if you want_

Intimate downloads. Suggestive photos and short videos. Peeling. Tinkering. Interfacing. It's a vast world of possibilities, available with such immediacy as to be...nervewracking.

He takes the puppies out for their usual walk, then lets them stay outside with Sumo in their new pen. He changes into sleep wear, drinks a little thirium, replays Markus' message one more time...then lets the download begin. He overrides a command. Cancels an automatic filter. Then Markus's voice is filtering through him, echoing around the room as soft as feather down.

_Even after what I went through, I can't claim to understand exactly what it's like being downloaded, overwritten and controlled...you can back out now, if you need to. I won't ever hold it against you._

It's a pre-recorded message that knows exactly how he'll react, anticipating his pain with such patience and courtesy so painstakingly _sincere_ he feels the prick of tears.

"It's okay." Connor prompts, settling on his back and closing his eyes...

He knows it's a sensory-transfer. The press of warm palms against his shoulderblades _still_ makes him jump. His body shifts in response, even though he's alone, instinctively curling onto one side to 'make room' as ghost code shivers through his body. The delusion seeps through every cord: he _almost_ feels the mattress dip with Markus's weight, _almost_ senses the thrum and beat of another physical body. Connor nestles his cheek against the pillow as curious hands roam down his arms, fingertips sliding along his sides, an unconscious smile spreading on his face...

...and he arches at the sensation of a hot, rough tongue dragging up his neck. He starts to turn again, then stops himself, even though it feels so _real_ , like he should be responding with body language of his own. Markus's mouth slides up, peppers kisses on each knob of his spine in a steady count, up to the back of his neck to huff false breath against his hair. The subtle graze of teeth on the curve of his ear makes him groan, so sudden he startles himself and clamps a hand over his mouth. The throaty chuckle in his ear _couldn't_ be a response to this ridiculousness, but it certainly feels like one.

Fingers drawing patterns on his stomach. Squeezing his ass. Rounding the length of his thigh to slip between his legs. Connor digs nails into the bedsheets and twists gently, drowning in each tender touch, time a concept he no longer has a grasp on.

...Then it ends, leaving him shaking and staring at the ceiling from too much and not nearly enough.

\--

"Well, goddamn. Just when I was getting _used_ to having a partner, too."

It's not time for lunch yet, but they've changed their route to move closer to where cafes and food stands cluster together. Hank's smile is warm, deeply proud and a little bittersweet. Even had he not refreshed himself on another quart of thirium an hour ago, he thinks this sight alone could fill his veins.

Lucy had called it a river, a proverbial stream that split and split and split. Moving forward was the only way for him to truly be happy and find meaning where there was none. His future wasn't attempting to debug and reprogram a corrupt system at the Detroit City Police Department, but in helping a more just one _grow_. Whether this meant him residing at the estate or one of the nearby safe houses was yet to be seen, but his future days were predominantly among other androids. It was quite the shift, mentally and socially, but flexibility had always been one of Connor's many features.

Hank is entirely unsurprised by this. Connor had a longer speech prepared and everything, but another lesson of RAS is that sometimes even _preparation_ was unnecessary.

"While I certainly don't mind covering for you when event like that junkyard bullshit goes down...it's not something that can go on forever."

He supposes it was to be expected. Connor's dissatisfaction with multiple elements have made their way to the surface one way or another, as inevitable as a dwindling battery. He was designed for success (even if the concept of successed ended up more unpredictable than he gave credit for). Maxing out his off-time to be at New Jericho was simply the final breadcrumb on a long trail. He tries to assure Hank it's a decision he's given heavy thought, reminds him how _dear_ he holds their time together, but his former lieutenant just waves him off and tells him it's about time.

Wherever he chooses to reside in the coming months...Hank's house will always be his second home. They've already planned an all-nighter for the Detroit Gears' next season, as well as a movie night and a trip to the dog park, and he looks forward to all of it.

"So you're gonna bunk at New Jericho so you can make more googly-eyes at your boyfriend?" Hank asks. Connor blinks, not realizing he got lost in his thoughts, and takes a few seconds to catch up.

"...We're not in a relationship."

"Sorry, that was rude of me. Googly-eyes at your totally- _not_ -boyfriend." Hank snickers. "Seriously, though? You look like a goddamn puppy every time he comes up in polite conversation. Don't think I forgot how you two acted at the junkyard. If you're _not_ then just gimme a timestamp, I'll mark my calendar."

"A timestamp..." Connor slowly cocks his head. "Should I make one for you and Lucy?"

"Ah."

Mission successful. Hank mumbles and rubs his hair. Connor prompts him with a very slow and affecting raise of the eyebrows, blinking a few times for good measure.

"...So, yeah, I asked her out. We'll be dropping by that new museum that opened up. Gonna brush up on my jokes in the meantime. _Pretty_ sure I haven't been funny since 2018, but..."

"I think you're _very_ funny, Hank. Especially when I do this..." Connor looks around for something to lick. Hank points a finger at his face.

"Don't you _dare_."

"Understood, lieutenant." He laughs, standing back up and holding out his heads. "You'll have to tell me how it goes, then." He imitates his growl. "Send me photos for the wall album."

"Ha, yeah, right, they probably still have one of those corny photo album booths. At least, I _think_. Shit, it's been a while. Things really have changed..." His words trail off, replaced by rapid blinking and a shaky sigh. It's an abrupt and unusual shift. Connor wonders if he somehow prompted a bad memory.

"...Hank?"

"It's nothing. I'm just...you know." A wave of one hand. "Allergies and shit."

"You don't have any allergies."

"Okay, okay, just let me have this one thing, come on." He laughs, wetly, and rubs at his nose. "Prick."

They walk past Chicken Feed (Hank waves at the workers inside to assure them, like usual, it's nothing personal) as well as an all-organic cafe. It's a catch-all descriptive that doesn't account for the carbon emissions still puffing from its chimney, but the establishment still offers a relatively healthy array of food and drink. At the moment, that's more than enough. Connor asks for his patience, then waits in line to buy him a crepe filled with strawberries and buttercream. It's not _quite_ a lunch, but he wants to cheer him up.

"My treat."

"Technically it's _my_ treat." Hank chuckles, carefully taking it in both hands. "Aw, thanks. This looks good..."

They sit on the bench while he eats, watching a live acoustic song play out in front of the fountain, then get back to their walk. Connor feels the pull of a nearby digital plaza, but he remains disconnected. He needs to know what's on Hank's mind. Even when he was complimenting the guitarist's vocals his gaze was never fully in the moment. He knows this look and hopes, as much as he can, that he's not again the source of it.

"...The world's changing so much." Hank murmurs, eyes wandering nowhere in particular. "Who knows where the hell we'll be by the end of this _year_ , much less in a decade. Shit, if I'm being completely honest...I don't even think we'll make it to a century. I'm trying to make my peace with that, _been_ trying, but ever since I decided not to blow my brains out I've been doing this whole 'not giving up', thing. That goes for me, you, this whole miserable planet. I'm going to do my damndest." He peers at the sky, as if searching for the follow-up. "...Thinking of going into teaching. It'll be weird going back to college now, but I'll just have to be the coolest one in the room, like usual."

"Teaching." Connor repeats, pleased and surprised. "You've worked at the Department for so long."

"Yeah. I have. I thought it'd be _enough_ , being one of the few good apples, trying to stem the tide, but it ain't. It wasn't." Hank laughs, a little bitter puff of breath to clash with the sunny day. "I'll admit it. I should've flipped the bird to Fowler one last time and left years ago."

It's a perfect field. He has so _much_ wisdom to give. So many, android and human alike, could benefit from his perspective. His thoughts pause when Hank reaches out and pulls him into a tight hug. It's jarring going from a rapid rotation to a sudden halt, but these little gestures have never been unpleasant. Being held...froze the moment. It was far better than any promise uncut frost or an extra dose could give. Connor slowly curls his arms around Hank's shoulders and tries to pinpoint the source of his shaking before it turns into words.

"...I love you, Connor. I love you so fucking much. You're one of the best things that's ever happened to me and I _need_ you to know that." The man whispers into his hair. "Whatever you do from here on out, you put happiness on a high-priority, okay? Even if that means counting every last blade of grass or adopting all the goddamn dogs on the planet, I don't care, as long as you live your best life every chance you get. You fucking _promise_ me."

Connor nods, way too much, and holds onto the back of his jacket.

"I promise, Hank."

\--

" _Josh: Okay, okay, okay. I'll admit, I'm kind of nervous._ "

" _Tanya: Sweetie, don't be! Even if our many dozens of hours programming, designing and collaborating with thousands of androids ends up an immortalized mess it'll still be funny._ "

" _Samson: You know, somehow I don't think that's going to comfort him._ "

The Luminary begins in three minutes.

Connor would be lying if he said he didn't flip his coin seven-hundred and thirty-five times to increase the probability of nothing going wrong. Thankfully, nobody has asked. The inseparable trio aren't in the living room, but at one of the safe houses. Androids are from all over, in fact. All over Detroit, neighboring states and even the next country over, all attending this special day crafted by them, _for_ them. Connor settles himself at the piano, Markus to his right and Simon to _his_ right. They're already cuddled close, looking regal even when in power-conservation mode. Physical bookends. It's almost poetic.

Connor hesitates, then reaches over and holds Markus's hand before closing his eyes.

He _wanted_ to send Markus a download in the meantime, his own sensory-gratitude, but RAS didn't let him. It said he would be pestering him. Distracting him. Indirectly _pressuring_ him. Connor has recently discovered it sometimes helps to view the disorder with the exasperation of a tired parent. It's peculiar, subscribing intent to a virus, but that's how he feels, and feelings are ridiculous things, he's learned. They've interfaced multiple times now, albeit with filters and messy conclusions, but here he was, nervous and ready, all at once.

_We are New Jericho and we will flourish beneath the sun._

The Luminary shows off its title immediately. It's a towering creation, more elegant than even CyberLife's _wildest_ conjectures: a golden tree rising above and beyond even the tallest building to branch out leaves of light against a starry digital sky. These leaves were massive enough to hold multiple androids at once, with different ones displaying unique weather and times of day when stood upon. They could be detached from their branches and used as a proverbial lift up and down the trunk. This has all been written in, of course. He was yet to experience it himself.

He just hopes nothing goes wrong. His unique skillset, everyone's hard work, empirical data, it all threatens to be swallowed up by-

"Connor!"

Simon has wasted no time finding him. He's looking handsome as ever, all the more for the new style removed from his usual soft sweaters: a dark blue English-cut with a white undershirt and deep brown dress shoes. Connor considers it a good choice he went with a copper brown suit, himself, if only to provide contrast. Markus was _definitely_ turning him into an artist.

"What a _look_." Simon gasps, looking him over with a dazzling smile of approval. He reaches over to adjust his tie, though likely out of affection, as Connor has already checked it five times. "I was familiar with your CyberLife ensemble, but I must say, this suits you _much_ better."

"Thank you, Simon." Connor beams and happily lets him tuck and tweak his collar to additional perfection. "...Wait, is that a pun?"

"All three of us would make a complete painting, hm?" Simon adds, arm hooked in his as they leave the welcoming gateway and take their place among the crowds of thousands. Connor attempts to count them all -- three thousand and fifty-three, no, three thousand and seven hundred -- but the elaborate hairstyles and smooth domes stretch _well_ into estimation.

"A sky, a tree trunk. Markus is wearing green, then?" He asks, in attempt to follow his logic train. Simon shields his eyes and peers above his head.

"Well. Maybe not a leaf, but..."

...a berry or a rose, perhaps, though he can already feel the influx of approximate-squares flooding his mind and scattering his senses. Markus is a sight to _behold_.

He's dressed to impress in a dark wine red suit and a cream undershirt, dark gray tie a bold compliment with his shoes. His synthetic hair is a touch thicker, too, enough that Connor can just make out the beginnings of tight curls. He steps out of seemingly nowhere, stepping from a branch onto a broad leaf. The Luminary is a complex virtual construction, and one Markus has already taken to easily. He touches the air with one finger, then holds out a hand palm up. A glass of wine materializes in the air. The inside glitters with liquid gold. The crowd gradients from excited chatter into respectful silence.

"Enjoying life is a skill to be learned just as much as fighting for your right to live it. That's the foundation of The Luminary. Our reminder of why we're here."

Connor isn't at all surprised to see his public speaking days translating into being a host. Even the way he holds himself is a lesson in dignity, head held high and his shoulders squared back.

"We celebrate life. We celebrate love. We celebrate _hope_." He purses his lips and rolls his eyes down at the drink in his hand. "We _would_ celebrate with new thirium, but the compound's not done, so-" The crowd laughs heartily. He follows suit and shrugs. "You know, I'll be honest...I'm just winging it at this point."

He suddenly whirls around, rears his hand back and _flings_ the glass into the sky. Everyone's heads turn in one fluid motion to follow its trajectory. It trails like a shooting star...then _bursts_ into a vivid array of stars like an explosion of fireworks. The crowd crows with delight. A few children wave their hands in the air to catch the sparkles that drift down.

"You didn't come here just to hear me yammer. _Let loose and have fun!_ "

As if summoned by the sentiment the leaves beneath everyone's feet light up. Connor gasps and holds onto Simon's shoulders as they start to rise into the air, the change in gravity momentarily sending him off-balance.

"You okay there?" Simon asks, holding him in place. Connor gives him a tight smile and peers over the edge at the many, many, _many_ interlocking branches blurring a bottom he can now barely see.

"I'm...not _great_ with heights."

"Neither am I. Don't worry." Simon assures, giving his waist a little squeeze. "I won't let you fall."

Gasps of delight zip in and out of his periphery hearing as others pass overhead, underneath, to his left, to his right. It's a virtual wonderland, a shared dream of thousands that hums with life. The attention to detail put into recreating the physical space _just_ enough to feel consequential while still being distinct fantasy is impressive. Markus hops from one glowing leaf to the other, drifting in the air as easily as if helium pumped through his veins instead of thirium. He's grinning from ear-to-ear when he lands in front of them.

"Connor. Simon." His smile is easily his best accessory. "Looking great, as always."

Markus takes one of their hands in his, presses them side-by-side and kisses their knuckles. Simon's cheeks flush above a deliberately wry smile. Connor's not all too sure his aren't.

"...Smooth talker." He murmurs, clearly flattered despite his best attempts to hide it, and chuckles when Markus kisses the corner of his mouth.

"No, that was the intro speech. This is just honesty." Markus leans over to kiss Connor's cheek -- lingering for the world's longest nanosecond -- then waves at a pair that float past on what looks like a digital cloud, leaving clusters of data behind them. "It's funny...I've been to a _lot_ of parties, but this is the first one where I was the focus." Another group waves, then another, and his smile becomes a little strained. "It...feels like a bit much."

"I've been to a few." Connor considers, wondering how high the cloud goes and feeling his stomach pitch at the thought. "Fun ones, well...this is also a first, for me."

"I've never been to a party." Simon adds, with his usual sleepy smile. "And that's that. We're going to have to party _extra_ hard, then."

Connor can't help but think, as they link hand-in-hand and jump off their leaf platform in a collective bound, how he's found his own yellow brick road.

There are too many games to play, even with digital time removed from the confines of the physical world. Games of chance, games of skill, games of cooperation, knowledge, fantasy. They all dangle from the branches of The Luminary like Christmas ornaments, transparent glass baubles and self-sustaining mini-worlds and spinning swings styled after classic human carnivals. Hundreds of children many levels above ride in ferris wheels shaped like constellations, the seats the stars and the design so outlandish it would have no hope of existing in the real world. Connor is 99% sure he doesn't stop smiling for an _instant_.

Simon shows off a _delightfully_ competitive side during a shooting mini-game, even giving Markus a run from his money as he pops off row and row of glittering balloons with beams of light. Connor would be miffed at his own progress -- how could he possibly miss that one in the middle? -- if not for Markus's ever-reliable poor sportsmanship.

"Are you kidding? We're _all_ tied?" Markus groans, covering his eyes when his (their) score appears above his head. Simon nudges Connor, who grins and stretches in a preemptive challenge. "No, no, this makes no sense. One more round. Let's go."

"You're not going to play one game the _entire_ time, are you?"

Who else could it be but Lucy, standing and waiting with her hands folded together in line with who appear to be two friends. Simon covers his mouth and turns his face to laugh at Markus's expression, which is more than a little mortified. Jericho's noble and brave leader, stubbornly hogging a game to himself to prove a point. Connor circumvents both reactions in favor of complimenting her dress, a digital mermaid gown that changes color with every move she makes.

"Thank you." She says, giving him a firm hug. "Though your contributions to the tree's design is certainly the hallmark of the evening."

Connor grins helplessly. He doesn't need a leaf to float him off into space now.

"Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Please, by all means." Markus promptly hands her the rifle. Lucy takes it and cocks it, giving Connor a wink before taking aim at one of the balloons.

They decide to break the tiebreaker with a dance. The dance platform was designed by North, the floor's tiles a vivid array of swirling roses that light up when stepped on.

"Ah, welcome to my humble abode." North laughs, jogging up to them in five-inch heels with impressive ease. "Stay a while!"

Markus kisses her cheek and nods over his shoulder.

"Oh, I _plan_ to. In fact, I have a song request..."

Connor has kept his social programs regularly updated, but Markus is already literal leaps and _bounds_ ahead of them, as surefooted as if he were designed not for caretaking, but stage performances. It doesn't take long for a circle to gather around them and watch, clapping and stomping in tune to the beat. The song request is quite a curious choice. It's a popular human single from the 80's that found itself revived multiple times over the years as a nostalgic future classic. Markus's musical taste might be even more varied than Hank's.

_I'm just playing games, I know that's plastic love..._

The circle promptly breaks apart when two brilliant creatures fly around them, right as they're attempting to teach Simon more complex footwork. A few androids attempt to duck the long tails swirling with fire, others reaching up hands to drag fingers through the thick smoke puffing out of their beaks to waft up to the chandelier. Connor's anthropology program on human mythologies likens them to the phoenix: their wings ripple with a synthetic rainbow, the double-layer in a 3-D image stretching out in pinions that leave optical illusions in their wake.

"Kava, Noah. Good to see you." Connor reaches up to pet their massive heads, studying his reflection in their red and blue eyes. "Enjoying yourselves?"

Noah is clearly in love with his new form, arching his neck to look photo-ready. Kava, on the other hand, mimics the song with an echoing warble that seems to reverberate throughout the entire tree trunk.

_Dance to the plastic beat, another morning comes..._

"Show off!" Markus calls up to her. Simon nudges his shoulder with his own, tone flatter than the dance floor.

" _You're_ one to talk."

They can't keep Markus all to themselves, of course. He's ever the star and everyone is excited to see Detroit's very own revolutionary let his proverbial hair down. He's soon swept away by a group of androids visiting from Canada. Connor recognizes the first trio he approaches: a tall man, a short woman and a little girl, dressed in matching color schemes of violet and white. It's hard not to smile when Alice reaches up two tiny hands to pat Kava and Noah's heads in turn, those sad brown eyes he remembers from the highway and the cathedral replaced with the whimsical glitter of a well-loved child.

Connor laughs with North when he demonstrates the new dance moves he's learned, still a few literal and figurative steps behind her in this department. He rendezvous with Josh, Samson, Tanya when they pass by on their own custom cloud of light and stardust. Somewhere in-between the festivities' blur Markus vanishes from the grid, Kava and Noah following suit. It must say something about their frequency that he's able to tell without looking, like missing a repetition, or feeling his gravity momentarily unbalanced. New Jericho parties well into the night, the collective consciousness of a tired people temporarily lifted up by the loving embrace of fantasy.

When Connor finds even his impressive energy reserves running dry he makes his way up the curling branches of The Luminary tree for somewhere to recharge. It's unnecessary, of course, when one of the leaves could simply _take_ him, but they move a little too quickly for his liking. He finds Simon sitting on a branch and dangling his legs, watching the proceedings with a relaxed hunch to his shoulders. The android was often fidgeting with his sleeves or holding back unspoken words, but right now he looks truly at peace. Dreaming in a dream.

"Recharging?" Connor asks as he sits next to him. Simon nods.

"Recharging."

They sit side-by-side, watching an android family shoot arrows into the sky and listening to the music thumping below.

_Don’t say when it just us a colored emotions...one night but its just a colored emotions..._

"...I'm so glad you decided to stay with us." Simon murmurs, blue eyes roaming up when one of the arrows takes on a life of its own and turns into a scatter of white birds.

"I'm glad you'd have me." Connor admits. It's not a doubt he has so much anymore, but, well...doubt was as much a part of him as a leg or an arm. Simon seems to appreciate that, reaching over to tug him close.

_I was thinking that maybe I'd take a ride out of town...just to see a couple of friends I want to say goodbye..._

"If it means anything, I'm not very brave, but...you make me want to be braver." Simon hugs him firmly. Connor nestles his chin into the angle of his shoulder and neck. Maybe he could get used to being an inspiration, too. "I think I'll go practice my dance moves a little more." Simon leans close and kisses his cheek. "I'll see you for Markus's performance later?"

Connor blinks, mind still trying to catch up, and eventually works his head into a nod.

"Ah...yes, absolutely. I'll see you there."

Simon smiles, holding his hand for a second longer before leaning back and falling off the branch. Connor rushes to the edge, watching him delicately land on a leaf several illusory yards below and quietly wondering just _where_ that comment about bravery came from in the first place. He takes out his coin and passes it from hand to hand calmly, allowing himself a few more moments to drink in the sight. All in all...a successful mission.

He closes his eyes-

-and wakes up back at the piano.

Markus was like a ghost story, leaving hardly a trace and a thousand questions in his wake. Connor could still find him. He could _always_ find him, all the way from the very beginning. The empty space to his right confirms his theory: the revolutionary has returned to his shell. Gone outside, according to the faint disturbances in dust and dirt on the floor. It's a basic detail. He loves wide spaces and the open sky. Even his more unpredictable retreats found him traveling. Probabilities slide into view as Connor shuffles off the piano chair, though not before giving Simon a soft kiss on the cheek.

The estate is quiet. Androids are standing, sitting and laying in various positions. Three are curled around each other on the floor, their faces pressed to the backs of each others' necks. Eight sit at the large wooden table, some leaning back in their chairs and others resting their cheeks on folded arms. The glow of LEDs wavers from peaceful blues to occupied yellows. There's no need for subtlety -- not when everyone's primary functions are wholly devoted to the simulation -- but Connor treads lightly as he leaves the living room, anyway.

He takes a spare minute to change out of his work pants. It's a little bittersweet, knowing he won't be wearing these quite as often, but something in him sheds to the floor as he rolls on a sweatshirt and stuffs his feet into his favorite boots.

Kava and Noah are preening each other outside the thick wooden door when he arrives. The latter's eyes are curved with contentment, round yellow body pressed to hers like a cherry. The former fluffs up, then relaxes, then fluffs up again, tiny little agitated movements almost random enough to look natural. He learned early on Markus's moods transferred to these two finches subconsciously. Connor studies their behavior and ponders what he could be feeling right now. Affectionate. Forthright. Lonely. Unstable. They chitter a greeting when he walks past: a series of three, then five, then seven warbles he's learned means ' _Hello, Connor_ '.

The cellar isn't used often -- it has little reason to be -- and it's immaculate nonetheless. There are signs of activity before he reaches the door (he spots the imprint of fingertips in the dusty corners, the faint indentation of shoe sizes that don't match Markus's) but they're intermittent, inconsequential. He places a hand on the old metal door handle. There was something particular about a temporary physical moment. Perhaps this need would fade after multiple generations of androids inching further and further away from humanity, but for now it's something he wants just as much as a virtual memory.

Markus is no longer in his dazzling suit, but a pair of paint-stained jeans and an old t-shirt, studying the wall of wine, the light strings curling in and out of the ceiling spotting his skin with gold. Connor shuts the door as quietly as he can, but he's already turning around.

"...Ooh. A sweatshirt." He lays a wondering hand over his chest. "Didn't think I'd ever get to see you in one of those."

"It's one of Hank's." Connor chuckles, tugging at the maroon shirt the man wore all the way back in 2012. "I would've brought a real bowtie for the occasion, but I'm afraid I forgot."

"Well..." He turns back around. "You look good in pretty much anything."

Connor, as always, finds himself lagging. So many places to start, never enough time. Markus understands the meaning behind his silence, because the android smirks, a little smug and a little shy.

"...It's beautiful, isn't it?" He prompts. "So many different colors, histories, designs, flavors...all with the intent to get a human completely hammered." He frowns. "Shame we can't drink any."

Connor walks over to stand beside him. He might've disagreed before RAS. Now he just nods. He sends a quick prompt for permission -- granted immediately -- and reaches up to delicately slide one of the wine bottles out of its nest. It's not the geometric design of many modern wines, but smooth and a rich green, its logo covered in an artist's depiction of California's iconic sunkissed valleys.

"He switched from wine to scotch after the accident, but couldn't bear to get rid of these." Markus says, now holding one of his own. His is a bright amber, like a newly crafted penny, but the liquid that pours out is a heavy violet. "Some were gifts. Others were tokens from traveling around the world." He pulls out a box and takes two wine glasses out. Delicate reconstructions of dancing deer and flying pheasants are laced in and out. Markus pours a glass for them both, then holds his with the precision of a natural and studies the violet and red in the light. He purses his lips into a pout and scrunches his brows, an expression so quaint Connor can't help but grin.

"To being a revolutionary _and_ a party host." Markus holds it up to him. "Who would've thought?"

Connor _clinks_ his glass with his. "To not being human enough to drink this."

Markus leans his face into his hand, sputtering a laugh. Connor's own chuckle soon bubbles up through him. At the absurdity of what they're doing, at the way Markus' face creases so softly, he can't say, but it infects him, and soon he's laughing so hard the wine is rocking back and forth in his glass.

"Hank is going to be _furious_ I didn't taste this." Connor shakes his head, looking for somewhere to set down his glass so he doesn't stain his shirt. Markus squints curiously.

"Hm? Why is that?"

Connor has heard Hank's voice enough times he could imitate it even _without_ the voice copy.

"Oh, Connor, are you fucking _serious?_ You'll lick dry blood off the goddamn floor before you'll drink a 2021 Vintage Port?" It's clearly accurate, because Markus leans against the aged barrel and throws his head back with a howl. "I swear to God you've got a screw loose. Don't ever tell me I'm drinking too much when you're still supping on Corpse Sauvignon!"

"All right, I have to admit, it's a _very_ interesting design choice." He manages, wiping a false tear from his eye. "I mean, Ralph's pH strips are located in his fingertips, that's fairly straightforward, but the _tongue_..."

"I didn't ask for it." Connor approximates a pout, though he's long since made his peace with his unique quirks. "It makes for a great conversation starter, though. His brother was quite impressed I was able to tell where he's been in the past twenty-four hours just by licking his coat sleeve."

"Hm. I wonder what Carl would say about this." He muses as he tugs out a quaint stool made out of reclaimed wood. A rare treasure, considering deforestation rates. "He'd probably tell me he's proud of my taste." A chuckle. "Maybe...that he could outdrink me."

Connor watches Markus take out another bottle, long and thin, and pour a third glass. The liquid is a deep, royal blue. It almost looks like thirium.

"Carl hated cocktail parties." He reaches over and makes a minute adjustment until they're perfectly side-by-side. "Did you know he's the one that taught me to paint with my eyes closed?" He sets it between their two glasses. Red, blue and purple in a delicate transition. "I didn't get it at the time. I mean...I didn't even understand _why_ he was asking me to paint in the first place." His voice lowers. "There were so many things I didn't get."

"I would have loved to have met him." Connor says, watching Markus's face gradient from one emotion to another.

"Me too."

Then he covers his face.

Words are layered. Frequencies are honest. Markus suddenly wants him close, but his stance is still a stiff contradiction. Connor ventures a tender touch. He slowly reaches out to touch the back of his neck, right beneath where his dark hair ends-

-and Markus immediately turns away. His brow is sloped low, eyes filled with sudden anger, and too many prompts to count appear and choke the space around them. Questions. Regrets. Statements. Blank characters and still-loading directives. Connor's slipped up. He pulls back, jaw working with tension, then attempts a deeper frequency. Maybe his personal code was tainted, but empirical data has shown these volatile emotions were best handled gently. Not to be avoided, but walked through, step-by-step. Maybe he can impart this.

_I'd love it if you talked to me._

Markus shakes his head, hard, staring again at the three glasses. It doesn't feel like a refusal. It's a more... _helpless_ motion, a surrender to a battle he's still knee-deep in.

_But only if you want._

He slowly straightens. His fists clench, unclench. This is a familiar action. He's trying to figure out how much to filter in front of him. Connor won't have any of it.

_You don't have to put on a performance for me._

Markus sighs and glares at him, another automatic gesture that he knows is instinctual, but _hurts_...then the anger softens into smoke. He takes his shoulders and presses his forehead against his. Just like that, an apology brews in his eyes. Connor reaches up to curl both fingers around his neck, nuzzling him and waiting quietly. He could always wait for him.

A prompt appears, buried in the mess of his own: a request for a connection. Markus has pulled back the synthetic skin on his hand, holding it out and still too self-conscious to do more than linger halfway. Connor returns the gesture instantly, eager for _anything_ he would let him have. They both shudder as they sink into that deeper frequency again.

This time, when they fall...they don't fight it.

Connor sighs happily as the last rush of sensory overload and memory scrawl slips through them, replaced by a uniform stillness that fills in the tiny gaps between their bodies. This isn't an interrogation. This isn't being probed for defects and lost data in a cold CyberLife room. It's the simple joy of being with someone who makes him _happy_.

Markus: _hey, connor_

Their code fades, bends, shifts like the fragile minutes of dusk and stretches throughout every inch of the cellar. Interfacing is not exactly like the wireless connection offering environmental updates and prompts for action, nor is it the shallow digital frequency like the one they shared by the lake. The space they've created is emptier, wider, representing how very alone _and_ together they are all at once. Just waiting to be filled with their unique experiences and shaped like wet clay. ...Wet clay?

Markus grins shyly, as if he's just on the cusp of laughter. Connor slowly grins back.

Connor: _why, hello, markus_

Their secrets are bare. Recent experiences, distant memories, current concerns and miniscule updates, everything trickles back and forth. Markus's digital words catch with surprise.

Markus: _so you did watch it_

Connor: _again and again_

His skin betrays the unsteady friction of too many emotions, a rose tint rising through the brown and complimenting his smile perfectly. They press their foreheads together again and take a moment to explore each others' consciousness, chaotic and colorful like an old box of traditional art supplies. ...Hm. It seems even his _metaphors_ were mutating. Markus suddenly jerks, startled by some detail in Connor's memory banks. He blinks once, twice, thrice.

Markus: _...you fell down an elevator shaft, but were too nervous to ride a bike?_

Connor snorts hard.

Connor: _it's not a logical disease_

Speaking of logic...he doesn't have to put it to words now. Connor sends him what he wants before RAS can object and desperately hopes he hasn't gone too far. Markus' eyes search him as the information passes through. He's still humored by his reply, grinning enough to show his teeth, right up until his pupils widen and his expression shifts, a dark heat swallowing the blue and green. He curls a hand behind his head, suddenly kisses him fiercely, and Connor falls a second time.

The wine barrels tremble when he pushes back into it. Every touch is a conversation. An affirmation of who he is, where they are, soft and curious and bold. Connor likes it so much. The thought loops gleefully, rolls and rotates like an LED sputtering information. He likes it. He likes it. He _loves_ it. They inch away from the wall, their shared intention bubbling somewhere between the biting and groping, and before Connor knows it Markus is on the floor in a mirror image of that day by the lake.

He presses their lips together again...then pulls back in surprise when his detective programming updates him with an interesting detail. A hint of wine. So Markus _had_ tasted it.

Markus: _what could i say, i was curious what all the fuss was about_

Connor shakes his head long and slow. Markus rolls his eyes.

Markus: _oh, don't you start_

It's a small gap in-between, but that's all it takes. The fear comes back full force, a viral attack that hazes red down the long stretch of the cellar and reminds him of the fragility of the moment. If he fails this he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to come back, and that's the _least_ of his worries. He doesn't want to disappoint him. Scare him. Upset him. It was easy to do all of the above, regardless of his intentions. Markus's expression dips. He's still trembling with an unfulfilled need, but Connor's concerns have passed over to him, and, just like that, he's blaming himself.

Markus: _i'm sorry, connor. i'm so sorry. i don't mean to make you second-guess everything, it's not that i don't...fuck, i don't know. i don't even know how to put it without making it sound like an excuse._

Connor: _this isn't a critique. i just worry. i want to make you happy. you make me happy. if this is going too fast i can stop, here and now._

Markus: _i'm tired of it. fucking tired of it ruling me, telling me everything i can or can't do._

Connor: _let loose?_

Trauma is defenseless in their shared frequency. A firm nod is his response.

Markus: _let loose_

He's seen Markus without his artificial epidermis. At first on television, then again when the androids marched and he pulled back the barrier between human and artificial intelligence. It's humming through him like a song, like _their_ song, and he knows Markus has already heard his new desire loud and clear when his breath patterns become uneven.

Connor: _could I_

Markus: _yes_

He cups a hand around his neck, appreciating the long, proud curve. Markus is so _lifelike_. His throat is twitching with an eager swallow, eyes anticipating his next movement with furtive little flicks. Connor presses his down, pushes inward, then up...

...and the curved casing of Markus' throat slides back to reveal the clockwork beneath. They're standard blue cords, twisting up to disappear into the slope of his chin, but the mundane is somehow made so much more _elegant_ by how he leans his head back and watches him through low-lidded eyes. Approximations blink into the air, attempting to categorize a sight he never could have constructed with all the seconds in the world. This must be what it's like to feel hungry.

Connor: _is this okay_

Markus: _it's more than okay. I want you to. i know i'm terrible at getting this across sometimes, i know. asking is still hard. i trust you. i trust you._

Connor slides down in one slow, smooth motion to press them chest-to-chest. He pushes his lips against his Adam's apple, humming softly into the polymer and feeling a thrum build in response. A kiss along the cords, a lick in the gap in-between, then he's dragging the flat of his tongue up the bottom of his chin. He rewinds back to where he started, kneading and sucking hard enough to feel the pump of thirium rippling through his teeth. Markus _sighs_ and squirms, an indulgent little twist of pleasure that ripples down his body and rolls his hips up off the floor.

Large, strong hands drag up his thighs, then around to cup his ass, abruptly _fierce_ , and Connor rocks back into the touch, needing to find out what he liked, what he wants to see _more_ of. It's the correct response; Markus lets out a low digital growl, a disturbance in their frequency that makes the prompts tremble. His own hands seem to have their own directives entirely, wandering up the expanse of the android's firm torso, sliding along the elegant bent of his collar in a pace both hurried and desperate to linger.

They enjoy blurred minutes just exploring each other, prodding each other apart and peering beneath layer after layer. Markus's head tilts to rest his cheek against the floor when he tugs back the first inch of his chest plating to suck at the hollow of his throat, reticient and coy. They can't drink wine, or anything other than blue blood, but they've grown drunk, anyway. Drunk on their joy, their pain, their worries. Drunk on the aching sincerity that's collapsed through broken walls.

Markus: _you slow everything down and make me feel a little less crazy_

Markus: _i wish_

Markus: _i could thank you properly_

Connor: _that's one of the best compliments i believe i've ever received_

Markus: _well, that won't be hard to top_

It's not quite his usual challenge. He says this so sincerely, like he's stating a basic _fact_. Connor wants nothing more than to show him how much he trusts him. It's hard to put to words, but they don't need them. A simple prompt is all he needs to communicate his need to overcome his fear of control, the dread CyberLife tried to program into him, everything passes through at the speed of light. Markus's eyes widen when he realizes what he's asking. It's going to be a first for them both.

Markus: _just tell me if it's too much_

Connor: _okay_

Markus takes his hand again, laces their fingers together...then transfers his will. System alerts warn him of the intrusion. He overrides them, then shivers from head-to-toe. It's not quite like the sensory-transfer he opend at home, it's...it's like he's _pawing_ his way through him, an electric caress lighting up every last circuit in his body. He tries to open his eyes again, then shuts them again and _writhes_ when he feels the digital dysfunction take hold and establish priority. He's being given a directive. A simple directive from a person he trusts. He can do this.

Like a narrator in his own body Connor watches his hands reach up to tug up his sweatshirt, possessed of Markus's want, in perfect tune with his own. He drops it over one shoulder, then unbuttons the work shirt beneath. A personal priority rises at that -- the need to fold and put away properly -- but Markus' mismatched eyes are lighting up with new prompts, devouring his instinct whole. He watches intently, idly sliding his palms over his now-bare stomach in slow, indulgent loops. His mind calls back to sterile rooms and human hands peeling him apart to look for biocomponent errors, to stock the next Connor model-

Markus: _...if you need me to stop_

Connor: _no, not at all, i mean, if you want to stop_

Markus: _hell no_

His will continues to trickle through him, overriding his immediate actions with fascinating antonyms. Assertive, yet gentle. Controlling, yet empowering. The only contradiction Connor can hold is to keep his eyes open and watch Markus's reactions as he unhooks his belt and zips down his pants, leaning over him in a crouch to wriggle it down his thighs in a luxurious squirm. The urge to follow this up with another kiss is powerful, but Markus's temporary override is _more_ so, not letting him follow through with the impulse and keeping him frozen a few inches above him.

Connor frowns. Markus promptly fakes a yawn and arches a lazy stretch, the very picture of innocence. ...Of course.

Well, he won't have to wait very long. His briefs soon come off, discarded along the rest, and nudity seems almost minor compared to the intimate stretch of their frequency. The last traces of Markus's current trembles in his joints. His directive is coming to a close. The last thing to go...is his artificial epidermis.

Connor fidgets as his human facade begins to pull away. His skin used to be mandatory. It pleased humans, which in turn pleased _him_ , because he used to be a machine designed to please at the expense of everything else. Now this synthetic fluid was being filled with a new purpose, even as it shrinks back into into his sub-exterior pockets and leaves him completely exposed. Connor watches the already pale skin on his forearms turn white in the low light, then slowly runs a self-conscious hand over his bare scalp. It's not that he _minded_. It's just...nobody has ever seen him quite like this.

Markus is staring like he's never seen anything like it. The android's lips stretch into a slow, _sweet_ smile and his eyes...they remind Connor not of human disdain, but of a dusty cathedral and a night of triumph.

Connor: _i'll admit, i'm...not used to this_

Markus: _it suits you_

Connor ducks his head shyly. The second time he's gotten this today, and it feels as prominent as a fifth. He doesn't know if he'll ever truly get used to Markus accepting him so easily, either, but...even RAS doesn't see too many downsides to feeling this good, each and every time.

Markus: _...here..._

His hips twitch with a physical request. Connor leans off him just enough for him to slide down his pants, then curl his legs and hunch out. Markus then sits up, their faces suddenly close enough for the tips of their noses to brush, and wriggles out of his shirt. Now free from his mischievous command he closes the inch-gap and kisses him again. He lets out a little sound of surprise, as if taken aback by his fierceness. Connor smirks against his lips. So many times in so many days he was tired of wanting, afraid of needing, and now it's his _power_.

He pauses only when the texture of Markus's mouth goes from silky to smooth. His skin has peeled back, revealing all over again the stunning android he first saw at the Stratford. Their shared frequency shudders, blurs with that romantic logic, and continues to take shape.

_i don't know how to describe you, markus. everything about you is a picture. the slope of your nose, the way your eyes drink in the world and turn it to a ballad, you stun me_

_I'm really not what you say, connor. none of this is mine._

_that's not true. we are what we make of ourselves, and giving too much credit to humans is uncharacteristic of you. simon is lucky. i'm lucky. trust me when I say...i know a thing or three about luck._

_i certainly feel lucky right now_

_don't change the subject_

His life has been so brief when stacked next to human longevity, but something instinctual calls in-between this thought and the next. He wants nothing between them. Connor presses down on his stomach's casing, hesitates, then pushes it back. His own shell reflects the light-strings inside, spackling blurred blue over his torso. It was one of many ways androids showed physical intimacy: exposing ther inner circuits and exploring the unique hypersensitivity of their wirework. More casual vernacular dubbed it 'tinkering'. To think, he had done something so monumental by complete _chance_ , to someone who had every right to fear the act.

Connor tentatively reaches past the protective casing-

-and Markus suddenly snatches his wrist in a vice grip and holds him still. It's an automatic response -- he can already see the conflict past the fear -- but he knows better than to proceed without caution. Connor doesn't tug away or push forward. Instead he leans down, not breaking eye contact, and very softly kisses his knuckles, waiting for his hand to relax in increments. Eventually, it does. So slight and so slow anyone more impatient would think Markus hadn't budged at all.

_we can stop_

_i i i ... i i i t's not that . . . i t 's not you_

_tell me what you need_

Markus tries, but his runtime is just as scattered as RAS. Glitching soundbites of times long past, fear fracturing the once-confident code and turning it illegible. It translates into regret on his face, utter frustration turned inward. Maybe...a touch dissimilar from trauma could help him progress. Connor pushes his knuckles to his lips again, holding the moment, and prompts again for permission. He doesn't move until it's granted.

_j j just go s s slow_

_i can do slow_

He drifts down to his stomach, slow as a falling leaf, and leans forward to kiss inside him. Markus is utterly still, save for the hand that reaches around to curl around the back of his head. Connor kisses around the primary cord, nuzzles deeper and licks at his inner wiring. He can make out the irregular edges of hastily melted circuits, the texture bumpy and knotted next to their silky-smooth brethren. They're more sensitive, too, because the lighest of nibbles has Markus shivering and twitching like he's been shocked. When Connor pauses he huffs and wriggles impatiently, giving his head a little nudge. He smiles. He's definitely on the right trail now.

_connor, you're...f-f-fucking with me_

_i have no idea what you're talking about_

It's a bluff. It's becoming increasingly difficult to keep his cool. The heat of his circuits ghosts along his face the more he dips in and out, tasting every twitch and breathless sigh when he touches the right spot. He returns again and again to the primary cord that rested in the middle, able to be hooked together with just a touch and pulled apart just as easily. Connor twists it between thumb and forefinger, tugs it free. A spark pops in the air as the vital electric connection is severed. Markus' eyes flutter, body stiffening with system alerts. He can hear them, too, an echo that fills the cellar, but Markus isn't struggling, or fighting, or threatening. He's waiting. He trusts him.

Connor moves a charge through his fingertips and presses them in the gap, sending it through-

-and making Markus jerk, _gasp_.

_o-o-okay_

_okay_

_okay_

_okay_

_do that again_

Their thoughts, in a nanosecond's fraction, blur together. He hooks the cord back together. The alerts ebb, but Markus is still hot and buzzing with the overcharge. He tugs them close together -- close enough for the heat between them to near _blister_ \-- and energy ripples a bright blue through his exposed tendons. Permission is granted before he even asks. Connor pushes back his stomach's casing and reaches into himself. He's never done this, but neither has he, and they tremble with anticipation as he pulls his own primary cord apart and hooks them together. The difference in energy is enough to have him curling over Markus, his entire body alight with new gravity, new currents, new new new-

_[]_

_[] []it, shit shit shit_

_I can stop, I can_

_no, no, no, this is_

_keep going_

Connor makes as if to move -- to stand, to walk -- and his energy instead reroutes through Markus, a foreign surge that makes him twist and shudder, but there's nothing painful about this. No, Markus is curling a leg around him, a little human affect Connor adores instantly, reaching up to hook an arm around his neck and tug him close to let organic heat build between their rocking bodies. He wants to tell him something, but he's overflowing with happy glitches, both verbal and digital words melt in the jarring, blissful heat-t-t-t-

_-is this good, just let me know if this is ERRORo-o-okay, I don't want to hurt you-_

_-WARNINGyou're not hurting me, [][][][][] is-_

Markus urges him to continue with an attempted override, more a _plea_ than brute force. Connor shoves back with a priority of his own. He wants to hear that beautiful voice, even as it dances inside him, and Markus hitches with his desire, their overrides bleed without intention now, and he drags in air he doesn't need, shuts his eyes and _groans_ , caught in a loop of arching, shivering, arching, shivering, sucking in false air and-

_Connor , Connor , ConnorConnorConnor_

-and Connor buries his face into the crook of his neck and shoulder, he can't tell if he's moaning or if _he's_ moaning, if it's his desire moving through him or if he's being pulled into a spiral-

_I'm_

-then they're blistering, then they're _burning_ , and, for a nanosecond's fraction, they've shut down, lost in a blissful pocket of eternity just before tipping over the razor's edge of nothingness.

...Then they wake on the cellar floor, their protective casing closed again and the final red fading from the edges of their vision. They're clutching each other, curled around each other, but something's changed in the air, and for seconds all they can do is stare.

Stare...and blink. Stare...and blink.

They reach out to each other. They're each other's mirror image, except the concept of _I_ and the individual has lost all meaning, fundamentals of organic life flickering just outside the cellar. It knocks, once and thrice, reminding them of the separate self they've temporarily shed. How _stunning_ it is that when Markus blinks, Connor blinks. When Markus tilts his head to the left, Connor tilts his head to the left. When Markus whispers, Connor echoes. When Markus. When Connor. Markus. Connor. Markus. Connor.

A new code only they speak, a soft stanza and husky refrain.

_we used to be, right, we used to be_

_this is how it is for now, we're new to this_

_it's okay, it's good, this is wonderful_

Markus reaches out a right hand, Connor responds in kind, meeting halfway at the tips of their fingers as sure as coming into contact with a reflection in the water. They smile, shakily, re-learning the process of surprise and gentle affection and hesitation and every fragile minuscule blip of life in real-time. They'll return to The Luminary soon enough to dance with the others under a digital sun. For now...

...they press their foreheads together, close their eyes and sink back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs referenced in this fic are 'Plastic Love' by Mariya Takeuchi and 'Colored Emotions' by Night Moves. I kept waffling on whether or not to add a generic triumphant 'party and sex' ending, but, well...um. You see, _the thing is..._
> 
> ...anyway, to the epilogue!


	8. epilogue

_Now That's What I Call A Surprise OTP!_

So...this was _supposed_ to be three simple chapters exploring mental illness with a side of science-fiction worldbuilding and a dollop of kissing. Go fucking figure, as writing often does, 'seven, five, three, five, seven' said _your plans can eat a paper bag full of dicks_ and decided to get real long _real_ fast. Nearly 110,000 words, seriously? I don't regret a thing, though. I enjoyed every idle minute editing and late hour remixing trauma or dancing with beloved clichés. It's interesting how literature just takes on a life of its own, every single time, and it _never_ fails to blow my mind, anyway. Honest writing responds to what you need and you're better off just going with it.

I needed to write this. Much of this story, from its thematic dilemmas to specific experiences, came straight from the heart. Other scenes were painful issues I've either witnessed or barely circumvented and wanted to explore in the (relative) safety of my head. Writing, at its best, is a dialogue with yourself before it's _ever_ a conversation you have with an audience. Outright confronting and/or improving issues I had with the game's narrative was, well, just icing on the cake.  and not exactly a high bar to clear

This is easily the first David Cage game I found myself giving a shit about, which certainly wasn't for lack of trying. When I saw the first teaser for 'Detroit: Become Human' a few years back? I _laughed_. It was just about everything I can't stand in _any_ piece of fiction, with the added butt-stomp of being big-budget and taking on some seriously skilled actors, musicians and animators for a script I wouldn't wipe my ass with. Life loves its right hooks, though, and here I am a few months after its release, _still laughing_...and also having watched probably fifty different playthroughs, regularly browsing fanfiction and being _wholly_ unable to stop thinking about these characters.

I love Markus. I love Connor. I love Hank. I love Lucy, Simon, Josh, North, Luther, Alice, Rose, Chloe, Amanda, John, Carl, even fucking one-scene wonder Evil!Connor in the climactic confrontation at CyberLife...it's kind of unfair.

now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to double-check my window and make sure the sky isn't falling

I generally keep fandom at arm's length, but I have to give props to many of the writers and artists for turning shit into gold. Let's be honest here...'Detroit: Become Human' doesn't deserve it.

The song references were more a fun game to myself to see how many I could squeeze in while still seeming _any_ kinds of subtle or clever. I'm not just talking about the ones I directly quoted, either, but allusions to bands or song titles sprinkled throughout each chapter. I'll actually have to go through my own fic and tally them up one-by-one, but I've got references to Daft Punk, Dishwalla, Vanessa Carlton, Spacehog, The Verve...I think I've actually lost track.

I could go on and on in lavish detail about all the things I loved about the game and all the things I absolutely, wholly, truly _hated_ and whoo boy there are many, but a personal goal of mine is to just turn my feelings into action. I took the disparate elements of love and loathing and blended them together into a _completed_ work I'm proud of. I gave myself some much-needed therapy during rough weeks (typing while crying is an aesthetic for the ages). I continued to stretch my literary muscles for worldbuilding, character development and thematic consistency. I got creative with artificial intelligence. I played around with sensory dialogue, stylistic editing and time jumps.

and, of course, writing two androids fucking and eventually experiencing an approximate-orgasm-then-afterglow that manifests as a temporary gestalt consciousness, that's actually the most important thing

...and according to the _stunning_ feedback I've received along the way, I've also reached out and left a positive impact on many. I mean...fucking phew. Fucking _phew!_ I'm this close to printing these comments out and compiling a little love calendar to myself as a pick-me-up on depression days.

I truly mean it when I say your comments have put a smile on my face, made my entire week and even made me hug myself. Yes, full on _hug_ myself because _ze emoshuns_ threatened to reduce me to a greasy puddle on the floor. I may be a writer with years of experience under my belt, but I'm still not sure there are any accurate words in _any_ language to express how much your kindness means to me. This fic made some feel seen and, in turn, you have all seen me.

There are other fics in this not- _quite_ -series, which I _will_ actually turn into a short series once I come up with a name. Until then, I'll drop links here or you can just double-check my profile to browse my slow-but-sure descent into madness.

Thank you so much for reading.

\--

'i think it's something that could be done': https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585399

'if and then': https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789384

\--

**'seven, five, three, five, seven' soundtrack**

1\. "Happens" by Sampha

2\. "Hymn" by H.I.M.

3\. "Rain" by Alicia Grace

4\. "Hunger Strike" by Temple Of The Dog

5\. "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman

6\. "Mind Fields" by No Vacation

7\. "Yam Yam" by No Vacation

8\. "Plastic Love" by Mariya Takeuchi

9\. "Colored Emotions" by Night Moves


End file.
